


On Pining & Algebra

by shionz



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Character's Name Spelled as Viktor, Christmas, Dog Groomer Victor Nikiforov, Family Feels, First Meetings, Fluff, Getting Together, Holidays, Humor, Light Angst, M/M, Pining, Romantic Comedy, Teacher Katsuki Yuuri, Victor Nikiforov and Yuri Plisetsky Are Siblings
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 08:14:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28348233
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shionz/pseuds/shionz
Summary: When Viktor makes the annual trip to visit his family for the holidays, he’s pleasantly surprised to hear about a new tutor his little brother, Yuri, somehow hasn’t chased away yet. The last thing Viktor expects to happen on this trip, however, is for said tutor to be devilishly adorable and for Viktor’s entire world to be turned upside down because of it.
Relationships: Katsuki Yuuri/Victor Nikiforov, Victor Nikiforov & Yuri Plisetsky
Comments: 134
Kudos: 264





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Based on the prompt:** I have a crush on my younger sibling’s tutor, but I don’t know how to work myself into the scene without making everything incredibly awkward for me.
> 
> **Chapter beta read by:** [tendouz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tendouz/pseuds/tendouz)

* * *

  
Traffic in New York City is the bane of Viktor’s existence, and he is _incredibly_ close to turning this car around and flying right back to LA or slamming his face into the steering wheel to let his frustration out. 

He settles on a petulant wiggle in his seat instead, along with a whine loud enough to rival a begging Makkachin, who is currently snoring away in the backseat. 

Viktor pouts. She really has no idea how easy she has it. 

People in this city drive like they have absolutely no regard for their own lives or the ones around them, and the same goes for the civilians walking along the streets, casually inserting themselves into traffic at the most inopportune moments like they have some sort of deathwish. Viktor’s seen at _least_ three people nearly crushed by reckless motorcyclists in the last fifteen minutes—and they all continued crossing the street like nothing even happened, completely unfazed. 

Viktor groans and rubs his eyes as traffic once again comes to a halt. He should’ve known renting a car was a bad idea. He figured it’d be necessary, easier, instead of taking a taxi everywhere, but he somehow failed to remember what it’s like here after only a year away. It’s not like driving in LA is a pleasant experience either, but at least there he can drive two blocks straight without slamming on his horn and brakes.

Well, he reasons, at least if he gets in some brake-checking accident and destroys his car—which seems very likely, honestly; New Yorkers are so _aggressive_ sometimes—he’ll be ruining a rental and not his glamorous pink Cadillac back home. 

He sighs wistfully just thinking about it; he misses her.

But an eccentric car isn’t going to be enough to pull him back to California and neither is this dreadful traffic, even if it does make him feel like he’s slowly going insane. He promised himself after those first two lonely years in LA, when he felt it was necessary to adjust to living on his own by not seeing his family over the holidays, that he’d never miss a visit again—he’s done a good job of keeping that promise over the last five years, so he isn’t going to break it now. 

He breathes a sigh of relief as the cars in front of him move up ever so slightly and the monotone voice of his GPS announces he should be reaching his destination in about five minutes from now. (He just hopes that five minutes doesn’t magically turn into thirty.) 

He’d initially called Chris and left him on speakerphone as a way to pass the time while he suffered in this cramped rental, but that proved to be a terrible idea when Viktor ended up so distracted and scandalized over Chris’s latest shenanigans that he nearly hit a stray dog—a _dog_! Viktor screamed, Chris was left _very_ confused, and if Viktor actually had hit it, he would’ve broken down in tears and then flung himself into traffic in repentance. That phone call ended rather quickly. 

These last few hours on the road, and the chaos that ensued at the airport this morning when Makkachin tried to snatch a sandwich out of some stranger’s hand, has sucked every ounce of holiday spirit right out of his body. But he knows the second he shows up on the doorstep of his childhood home, it’ll hit him like a ton of bricks in the form of his father’s near suffocating hugs and his mother’s amazingly atrocious Christmas decorations—and then he’ll likely be _literally_ hit when his younger brother decides to grace everyone with his presence, but Viktor’s even looking forward to that, too… sort of. 

Flying down for the end of December and the early days of January has become an annual occurrence that Viktor now happily sticks to. He’d originally been hesitant to make the trip, because he _knew_ his parents were just desperate to continue their over the top birthday celebrations even now that he’s a fully grown adult—that was another reason he’d initially stayed back in LA those first two years—but they’d eventually conceded to make the experience more laid back if he allowed them to make his visit more Christmas oriented instead (a holiday his mother has been _obsessed_ with since the day they moved to America). 

His visit conveniently lines up with Yuri’s school break and New Years, too—a perfect opportunity to have the entire family together for a multitude of reasons, an endless week of celebration that Viktor is sure his younger brother is _so_ excited about. Just the thought of him sulking in a little Santa hat on Christmas morning brings a smile to his face. 

_Yeah_ , he thinks to himself, _definitely looking forward to it_.

As he continues driving forward and turns down a few more streets, getting closer and closer to his old home, an inevitable feeling of coziness and nostalgia blooms under his skin, fills his chest with a warmth in stark contrast to the light snowfall outside. Small trees along the sidewalk are engulfed in icy white and stringed in pale yellow lights, and every house and storefront practically shimmers with the twinkling of extravagant ornaments and decorations. 

He can only imagine his childhood home is ten times worse.

Christmas isn’t a major thing in Russia—the grandeur, gift giving, and trees that come with it usually being reserved for New Years instead—but his mother has always deeply adored both for as long as he could remember, jumping at the opportunity to spoil her children rotten and keep her excessive baubles and trinkets up well into January.

He loves his mother with all his heart and soul, really, but he’s already bracing himself for the unavoidable headache from being surrounded by multicolored lights for days on end.

When he finally pulls into the familiar neighborhood and parks along the curb, the immediate silence is almost unsettling. Away from the bustling streets and without the constant rumble of the engine, the sudden stillness is just a tad overwhelming. So Viktor takes a deep breath—and breaks said silence by heaving a dramatic, thundering groan loud enough to wake Makkachin out of pure relief. Exhaustion makes his limbs feel heavy, and his hands drop from the steering wheel, falling to the sides of his leather seat with a soft thump. 

He awkwardly stretches his arms and legs out as much as he can while still seated, then yawns and vigorously rubs his hands over his face in a desperate attempt to dispel his bone-deep fatigue—which is a terrible idea, actually, because _pimples_ , he chastises himself and immediately rips his hands away—since God knows he’ll need to be a little more awake before stepping foot into that house. 

His yawn immediately shifts into a burst of laughter, though, once he looks up and finally takes in the sight before him. While most of the townhouses down the street are adorned with elegant lights and tasteful wreaths, the Nikiforov household stands out like a sore thumb. 

The first step up to the entrance is flanked by massive glowing candy canes, and the railing along the stairs is wrapped in the brightest red tinsel and lights Viktor’s ever seen. From the tinsel dangles small, sparkly elf ornaments that he has to squint to really make out, and a massive holly wreath is stuck to the center of the door.

But that’s not what sticks out the most, no, because there’s also a sparkling snowman at least half Viktor’s size that looks more terrifying than cute right on their doorstep, with lights that switch back and forth to make it look like his little twig hand is waving to every passerby—and by its side to the right of the door is a large porcelain tiger entirely but adorably out of place, wearing a Santa hat. 

Viktor can guess whose idea that was.

He chuckles fondly with a shake of his head and takes the keys out of the ignition, then turns to face Makkachin. She’s sitting up now, head turning to the windows to study every brave cyclist trekking through the snow and every car rolling slowly past. Her pink collar and bone shaped tag jingle when she moves, and he can’t help but notice the way her curls are starting to get a little unruly—he should’ve given her a trim at the shop before he left, he grumbles inwardly. 

He pushes that thought away for a later time and taps his fingers against the center console to get her attention. She perks up and turns his way, chocolate brown eyes boring into his in anticipation.

He nods his head in the direction of the house. “You ready, girl?” he asks with a wry smile.

Maybe he stared directly at her a little longer than he should’ve because instead of remaining where she is, she pierces the quietness of the car with a resounding bark and twists to the side, dropping low to her stomach in a playful stance with her tail wagging fast.

Viktor jumps and instinctively reaches up to cover his ears, then closes his eyes with a whine and sinks down in his seat. “Makka, _nooo_ ,” he groans. “Way too tired for that.” 

Makkachin barks a second time.

Viktor twists in his seat to face her again, frowning. “Really?” he asks, tone flat like he’s about to scold a disobedient toddler. 

Makkachin just stares back at him before whining noisily, the sound only growing louder and more ridiculous when she opens her mouth in a massive yawn. 

Viktor sighs with a shake of his head, feigning annoyance. “Fine,” he says with a wave of his hand, “be that way.”

He quickly undoes his seatbelt and slides the keys into his pocket, and just as he opens the door, the entrance to the townhouse is wrenched wide open. Viktor and Makkachin both startle and look up, and he can’t help but grin at what he sees as he finally steps out of the car. 

Alexei Nikiforov is standing tall on their doorstep, all six foot four of him in black slacks and a button up shirt in a brilliant shade of pink, his thick, round glasses resting on his nose. His skin is as pale as it’s always been, with his dirty blonde hair slicked back and streaked in shades of grey just as light—though the beaming, heart shaped smile on his face makes him look ten years younger. 

“Vitya!” his father calls from the top of the stairs, hand waving excitedly and smile growing impossibly wider. If anyone ever wondered where Viktor inherited such an intense and dramatic personality, one look at his family would likely explain it all. “I thought I heard barking!”

Viktor huffs a laugh and waves back with matching enthusiasm. “Papa!” He holds his finger up to signal that he needs a moment and makes quick work of clipping the leash on the passenger seat to Makkachin’s collar. Once things are in order, he lets his beloved poodle friend hop out of the car and jogs up the steps at her side.

Of course, his father kneels to properly greet Makkachin first.

“Why, hello there, beautiful lady,” he coos and swiftly produces a handful of treats seemingly out of nowhere, which she promptly devours. His father’s hand is now coated in slobber, but he doesn’t seem to mind. “We missed you so much! Potya is going to be _so_ miserable now that you’re here!” he exclaims, accentuating his words by flapping her ears up and down. “Yes, she is—oh, yes. She. _Is!_ ”

Viktor tries and fails to pout, his lips involuntarily curling up at the display. “What, no love for your own son?” 

He regrets that statement almost immediately when his father hops up and pulls him in for a hug so tight it feels like his ribs are being crushed.

“A—ah, it’s good to see you, too,” Viktor croaks, hugging back with just a little less force. 

Alexei pulls back after a moment, hands on Viktor’s shoulders, taking him in like he’s been away ten years instead of one. “Always good to see you, son,” he replies in easy Russian, the language simultaneously familiar and foreign due to being away. Alexei cocks his head to the side. “Have you gotten taller?”

He definitely hasn’t, but his parents always ask. “No, but I think my forehead’s gotten bigger,” Viktor laments with a sigh, bringing his hand up to cover it. “Perhaps it’s provided me with some extra height.”

Alexei coos and tuts at that, opening his mouth to no doubt provide a recommendation for some miracle working hair product he’s recently added to his enormous collection, but is cut off by a voice coming from inside.

“Lyosha, will you let the kid in the house already?” his mother calls, and his father beams over hearing her voice like they just started dating yesterday. 

“Oh, right, yes! Come in, come in.” Alexei swoops in to take Makkachin’s leash and ushers him inside, a wall of warmth hitting him in the face the second he enters, the large fireplace in the living room providing immediate comfort. 

The smell of the house alone is enough to send him back in time—the freshly washed blankets draped over the back of the couch; his mother’s perfume wafting through the air; the cinnamon apple candles lined atop the mantel—an amalgamation of scents that is nothing but soothing and inviting and somehow never overwhelming. 

He’s met with memories of chasing Makkachin around the house when he first got her at seventeen and being berated for breaking one too many vases; of his mother dancing with a four year old Yuri in the kitchen to obnoxious Russian pop music when he could still tolerate the presence of others; and of his father hanging fabrics in the living room where the lighting was best, deliberating over which color to use in his latest design until a kitten sized Potya got fed up and tried to rip them to shreds. He smiles.

His father snags the keys from Viktor’s pocket without him even noticing, much too distracted by his felicity over being home, and jingles them in front of Viktor’s face. “Don’t worry, I’ll get your bags for you,” he announces, “and—oh! We pulled out Makka’s old bed and put it in the living room by the way, but—ah, nevermind. Sit down and catch up with mama!” 

And then he’s gone out the door in a flurry of vibrant color.

That pulls Viktor out of his nostalgic haze rather quickly and he’s momentarily stunned over the onslaught of pure noise emitted from his father. That is a man with an intensity that clearly rivals Viktor’s own. He blinks down at the floor for a second to collect himself, only to have his attention pulled to the kitchen by the sound of a soft, feminine chuckle. 

His mother, Anastasia, is leaning against the counter with all her signature poise and grace. A white mug is held up to cover her smile, though the lines around her eyes give it away. “I think someone’s a little excited,” she says in a mock whisper. “Can you tell?”

She may be in her fifties now, but she’s still managed to retain every bit of elegance gained through her time as a principal dancer at the Bolshoi and the years of dancing preceding that. Ballet appears dreamy and delicate only due to the blood, sweat, and tears that go into making it look effortless; a dainty style that requires a fierce amount of work and determination that very few people possess—but it’s obvious in his mother. 

She’s only average height, perhaps a bit shorter, but she carries herself like she’s six feet tall. Back straight, head held high, and her large eyes kind but sharp. She’s more intimidating and powerful than any man _or_ woman that Viktor’s ever met, and she has an ethereal beauty to match—with her waist length hair (then blonde, now grey) pulled back in a high ponytail, her sparkling blue eyes, and her lips painted a ruby red. 

Viktor breathes a laugh. “No, really?” he replies, already making his way over to her. Makkachin hops up from where she’d settled on her bed and follows him in. “I was just going to mention how tame he seems this year.”

His mother rolls her eyes in disbelief, a smile still present on her face as she sets the mug down behind her. She opens her arms wide. Viktor gravitates forward, some physical force pulling him closer, and wraps his own around her waist. 

She feels even more petite than she looks, and she’s short enough for him to rest his head on her’s. He smiles at the height difference. He vividly remembers their roles being reversed some time ago, until a major growth spurt hit him during his last two years of high school. 

“Hi, mama,” he mumbles, voice muffled with his cheek pressed against her hair. “Missed you.”

His mother snorts and wiggles free to pinch his cheek. “So sappy,” she teases, picking her drink up once more. Viktor settles against the island in the center of the kitchen, Makkachin at his feet. 

“I missed you, too. So much,” she says after a sip. “We all did, Yura included. Torture would probably be necessary to get him to admit that, though.” 

Viktor whines wordlessly and sags against the granite like a Victorian woman. He presses a hand to his forehead. “He’ll admit he loves me one day! I’ll just have to continue smothering him with hugs and suffer through a million more punches before it happens…” 

Just then his father reappears, bags in hand and carrying them with ease, even though they contain at least thirty different outfits that Viktor definitely won’t wear but brought anyway. 

“Don’t rile him up too much, Vitya, please,” his father drones. “I’d like to keep the punches to a minimum this year. We don’t want a repeat of the black eye incident from three years ago.”

Viktor watches him set the luggage down near the stairs and frowns. “I thought bruise tones looked nice on me.”

“They don’t. Purple washes you out,” he says, matter of fact, then whisks away to shut the door.

Viktor whirls around to face his mother, mouth agape and silently begging for sympathy. She just sets her cup in the sink and shrugs. 

“I shouldn’t have come,” Viktor sniffs. “Clearly you were lying and I’m not wanted here.”

“Oh, god, you are a carbon copy of your father,” Anastasia says with a laugh, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Alexei then steps back into the kitchen, father and son both blinking owlishly as they ask in unison, “What do you mean?”

His mother pauses and squints at them, scrutinizing, then purses her lips. She’s _very_ clearly holding in another laugh. “I… forget it,” she replies, waving the question away. She leans further against the counter top and crosses one leg over the other, kicking only a single slipper off, a quirk she always indulges in when relaxing. 

“So, tell me, how has my baby been? How’s work?” She smiles, expression wry. “Has Christophe managed to go a week without taking his pants off in public?” 

Viktor bites his tongue to stop himself from regaling her with an incident last week that involved him and Chris _both_ , a gargantuan amount of alcohol, a crowd of likely traumatized civilians, and the Hollywood Walk of Fame. 

Viktor scratches his temple and smiles innocently. “I’ve kept you updated on the phone,” he replies. “You know all about that already.”

“Yes, but face to face communication is important!” she exclaims, waving a hand between the two of them for emphasis. “And this way I can tell if you’re lying to me.”

“What would I be lying about?” Viktor frowns, confused.

Anastasia hums in contemplation like she doesn’t already know what she’s about to ask, but Viktor knows better by now. “Are you seeing anyone?”

Ah, there it is.

“Oh, mama—I just _got_ here,” he groans, head thrown back. “We’re having this conversation already?”

He should’ve known this was coming; his mother has only been asking the same question during every phone call they’ve had over the last _three years_. He just wasn’t expecting it so soon.

Viktor hasn’t been with anyone in well over a year now, a feat he is rather proud of, but his response is almost always the same: California boys are an entirely different breed that he just cannot stand. They’re either way too fake and arrogant—though incredibly attractive ( _why_ must they be so attractive?)—and he has to break it off only a few months in, or they claim _he’s_ way too clingy and annoying, and they inevitably call it quits around the same time frame. 

At the time, it was a vicious cycle he just couldn’t escape. It left him stressed beyond belief and incredibly drained once it was over. And though he knew his inevitable bouts of loneliness would only get worse when he made the decision all those months ago, it felt high time to stop constructing such pointless relationships and to wait for something real to transpire instead; something he genuinely wanted to pursue and not just for the short lived high that came with it.

The isolation of quite literally being _alone_ is it’s own kind of miserable, but it’s not nearly as tiring as reaching out to so many different people, desperate for some sort of connection. Because it may be easy for him to paste on a charming facade, to talk up any stranger who walks his way—it always has been—but it never fails to leave him utterly exhausted in the end.

He knows his mother just wants him to be happy, to find someone he’s as smitten with as she is with his father; he _knows_ that, but at this point in his life, he’s just done pretending. 

Besides, he’s been doing quite well all on his own… and he’s only partially trying to convince himself when he says that.

“Don’t overwhelm the poor boy, Nastya. He must be tired,” his father thankfully chimes in, though that first comment has both of them leveling him with a withering stare; as if his father isn’t a tornado incarnate and didn’t immediately overwhelm Viktor the second he stepped inside (lovingly, of course). Alexei blinks at the two of them, oblivious. “... What did I say?”

Viktor barks out a laugh and his mother shakes her head. “Fine, fine,” she concedes. “Update me on everything else, then.” 

That, he can do. 

Viktor hums and holds a hand up, going down the list on his fingers. “I’ve been doing well, work is the same as always—unbelievably busy; the human customers are terrible and the canine ones make my life worth living—and, uh…” He pauses, carefully thinking over how to word this next part. He settles on, “Chris just barely avoided being arrested last Tuesday for public indecency.”

His father’s eyebrows shoot up in concern. “On a _Tuesday_?”

“A Tuesday.” Viktor gives a grim nod. “The cop thought he was hot,” he adds by way of explanation.

His mother’s responding hum is one of total understanding and Alexei shoots her a disapproving side glance. 

A lull in conversation trickles in then and they all watch with the rapt attention of fascinated dog lovers as Makkachin decides this conversation is far too ridiculous for her and trots back into the living room, plopping down on her practically ancient bed.

Viktor turns his head to idly watch the poodle and gets his first real undisturbed view of the house in the process. 

Their ceiling is outrageously high yet the tree nearly scrapes against it, a white monster of a thing covered top to bottom in an assortment of dangling red and silver bulbs and pre-strung rainbow lights. There’s pillow stuffing acting as fake snow on every windowsill, red and green stockings—plaid _and_ striped—hanging from the fireplace, and there are more scary, vintage Santa Clause knick-knacks than Viktor can even count strewn across every available surface. 

Tinsel and ribbons are even attached to the railing sectioning off the second story of the house, and it’s _very_ obvious that that was Yuri’s job. Almost every bow is crooked and the tinsel seems to be just barely hanging on.

Well, at least he tried.

“Wow!” Viktor exclaims, smiling wide. “The decorations this year are even tackier than usual! Go, mama!”

Alexei groans and rubs his eyes under his glasses. “Vitya, _must_ you?” he asks, with the voice of a man who’s had this argument a hundred times over by now.

Viktor frowns. “What? It was a compliment.” (Kind of). “This level of gaudiness is _very_ impressive.”

His mother flips her ponytail with a haughty sniff. “I’m fifty-six, nothing matters anymore,” she quips. “I’m allowed to be as tacky as I want.”

Viktor can see his father fidgeting beside him out of the corner of his eye, visibly itching to interject. “It is a little much, though, love,” he finally says. “I think if we just switched out the—” 

“You are a _costume_ designer not an _interior_ designer!” Anastasia interrupts, a finger pointed at her husband. Viktor can see the way her lips are tightened, though, restraining a smile, eyes mirthful. “So I don’t want to hear another word about it.”

Alexei holds his hands up in surrender and bites back a smile of his own. Clearly there’s no winning this one.

Viktor chuckles at the exchange and gives the place another once over. When he glances to the second floor, his eyes hone in on a bedroom door just slightly cracked open.

“Where’s little Yura?” he asks. He expected the teen to at least be dragged downstairs to greet him with a grumpy, “ _Hi, asshole_ ,” before slinking back to his lair like he’s done in years past.

“Sleeping,” his mother replies with a roll of her eyes. She’s never been one for sleeping in, even if her work schedule is extremely flexible now—Alexei’s, too.

Viktor leans to the right to check the clock on the oven. He blinks. “It’s… two.”

“The transition into high school’s been a little rough,” she explains. “It’s the first day of break now, so we thought we’d let him enjoy it.” She smiles suddenly, conniving. “But don’t worry, I’m forcing him down here by three.”

He can only guess how well that will go over and is already bracing himself for the inevitable kicking and screaming. “How has he been?” Viktor inquires with a pout. “He never calls.”

Which makes sense, really. Most fifteen year olds aren’t jumping for joy when their almost thirty year old brother calls home, and they certainly don't put in the effort to regularly call themselves. He and Viktor text every now and then, though, but even those conversations are a bit… brief.

They usually go something like:

> **Viktor:** [an image of a screeching toddler he saw at work] _thought of you! :*_
> 
> **Little Cub 🐯** : _ur such a dick._

Short and sweet.

“He’s… Yura,” Alexei sighs, his smile amused. “Instead of decking the halls with boughs of holly, he’s been _wrecking_ them with bursts of hellfire.”

“Sounds about right!” Viktor grins.

“He’s been doing well, though,” his mother adds. She’d have something genuinely positive to say about Yuri even if he shattered every Santa figurine in her collection. “We actually got him another tutor, and he hasn’t chased this one out yet! Can you believe it?” She beams.

Honestly? No, he absolutely cannot. “A tutor?” Viktor asks. As far as he’s aware, Yuri’s done poorly in almost every class he’s taken—a tutor would be necessary for all of them. Though, there was always one subject he seemed to hate more than the rest. “Math?”

Alexei nods. “He went through so many in middle school, and he always got upset when we mentioned hiring another, but he seems to get along with this one really well,” he says, with that sort of proud smile only fathers seem capable of. “The others before him just… didn’t know how to handle Yura—didn’t understand his learning process, I think,” he continues. “He’s a little much, but he’s a good kid…” 

They all look to the handle on the oven at that, where a white rag used to reside—one Yuri snagged and threw on the stove _on purpose_ just to see how fast it would ignite. Alexei purses his lips and nods again, as if to convince himself. “A good kid,” he repeats, and Viktor laughs.

Yuri has been an absolute spitfire since the day he was brought into this world, and Viktor’s still quite hesitant to call him his parents' _miracle_ baby. _Oopsie_ baby seems much more appropriate, what with his mother finding out she was expecting at the later age of forty-one, but Viktor would be lying if he said he wasn’t absolutely ecstatic at the time, discovering he was going to be an older brother. 

Yuri’s now an obnoxious teen with an acute attitude problem—a certified Russian punk. And the studded belts and combat boots, leopard print _everything_ and shredded skinny jeans, only serve to amplify his reputation. It’s almost comical to imagine Yuri, of all people, getting along with some crotchety, old math tutor when he has enough trouble as it is getting along with kids his own age.

“They almost have the same name, actually,” his mother muses. “Y _uu_ ri; he’s very sweet—shyest little thing I’ve ever met in my life, though.” She tilts her head side to side, deliberating, then says, “We were actually thinking of inviting him over for your birthday dinner, if that’s alright with you?” Viktor already knows he’s expected to say yes. “It’s just… he’s helped Yura so much that he’s kind of like family, now…” 

Maybe Viktor’s impression of this mystery tutor is a little off because he never would’ve imagined his parents getting along with the type of person he’s picturing right now—especially not enough for them to willingly invite him over for _dinner_ … but, he supposes, they did leave Russia all those years ago due to the people being too close minded and hard to get along with. Perhaps it’s a good thing, then, that they’re still making new friends here, even now. 

Viktor sighs. “I mean…” He pauses, collecting his thoughts and forcing himself not to mention that he’d much rather call it a _Christmas_ dinner than a _birthday_ dinner—god, he’s getting so _old_. “I don’t see why not,” he finally agrees with a shrug, then smiles. “I’m curious to see the man who can wrangle a wild Yura into doing his math homework.” 

His mother brightens. “Oh, Vitya, you’ll _love_ him. He’s—” 

Whatever she was going to say is cut off by a bark loud enough to make them all jump, turning around just in time to see Makkachin spring up from her bed. A poor, unsuspecting Potya is standing with a single paw in the living room, warily peering around the corner, and Viktor already knows what’s about to happen before it does. 

“Makka, don’t—!” His words fall on deaf ears, of course, because she seems to take his protest as a go-ahead, and then the poodle is off like a shot, launching right after the innocent, little Ragdoll cat.

The three of them sigh in unison, resigning themselves to simply watching the chaos unfold as Potya slides and skitters across the hardwood before finally speeding up the stairs, Makkachin hot on her trail. The poodle’s nails clack noisily against the floor and Potya’s hissing and growling is just as loud, but the real uproar occurs when the two kick in Yuri’s door in a blur of white and brown fur.

Viktor closes his eyes, counts down from three—and then Yuri’s ear-piercing shriek damn near shakes the whole house. 

“What the _fuck_?! This is my _bedroom_ not a goddamn _zoo_ —get the fuck— _ow!_ — _get out!_ ”

Him and his parents all share a look, exasperated but impossibly fond, and Viktor leans his head back with a deep sigh.

It’s good to be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo! My second multichapter YOI fic! This is really just an excuse to write a super self-indulgent, fluffy universe with just a little angst + lots and lots of love—familial _and_ romantic… because we may know nothing about Viktor’s family situation in canon, but I believe he deserve the Best parents (˃̣̣̥ w ˂̣̣̥) ! I’m a little upset I didn’t come up with this idea earlier in the month, though, because I hate to post a Christmasy fic… _after_ Christmas lmfao, but oh well. I hope you enjoy it anyway.
> 
> (Also, in case you couldn’t tell by a lot of things mentioned throughout this chapter: yes, Viktor’s family is filthy rich lol.)
> 
> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> **Comments & kudos are greatly appreciated!** | Come scream at me on my **[YOI tumblr](url)**


	2. Chapter 2

* * *

  
The weariness that comes with traveling across the country always makes Viktor’s brain foggy and his body feel a thousand pounds heavier, and it didn’t take long on his first day back for that initial surge of excitement to die down until he was swaying on his feet and nearly dozing where he stood. And though his parents have a tendency to be a little _too_ enthusiastic at times, they, thankfully, understood that.

Right after his arrival, they didn't expect him to be in the mood for anything more taxing than lounging around and catching up further, updating each other on their lives more in depth than is possible during their usual weekly phone calls—which is exactly what they ended up doing, eventually moving their reunion from the kitchen to the couch.

Yuri managed to go back to sleep after the whole Makkachin-Potya face off and came down an hour later to say an obligatory hello before heading right back upstairs the minute he was able. His mother looked seconds away from smacking Yuri upside the head for being such a _teen_ , but Viktor appreciated it anyway. 

The next day, however, Viktor bounces right back and is up bright and early. He uses his newfound energy to unpack and place everything in their rightful drawers and closet spaces—because he’d rather _die_ than live out of a suitcase—and tries not to scream _too_ loud when he trips over a still sleeping Makkachin and stubs his toe on the wall.

His family rouses soon after, though a certain someone looks a whole lot less willing than the rest. His parents are dressed to the nines, as per usual, already prepared for the day ahead, while Yuri’s still in a tattered band tee and grey sweatpants, his angelic blonde hair looking more like a rat’s nest as he all but snores into his cereal. He doesn’t even bother swatting Viktor away when he leans down to pinch his cheek, which Viktor is entirely too pleased about. 

He tries to do it again a few minutes later and gets a spoon to the face.

After a laid back family breakfast full of easy conversation and one sided grumbling, Viktor is quick to notice that instead of hightailing it back to his bedroom once the kitchen is cleaned, Yuri plops himself down on the couch, arms crossed and frown firmly in place. Viktor smirks, thinking of how Anastasia likely berated him for not sticking around longer than he did yesterday, and he jumps at the opportunity to bug his brother a little more while he can.

So that’s how their day begins: the two siblings side by side once Viktor forces Yuri into walking Makkachin with him because he’s “too scared to go alone, Yura, _please_! New York can be so scary sometimes!” Yuri throws a fit about it, as if walking an adorable, friendly poodle around the block might actually be the death of him, but Viktor knows it’s all for show—especially when they stop for a moment on the sidewalk and Yuri brushes his hands through the dog’s curls with a serene smile on his face, one he probably assumes Viktor _can’t_ see through Yuri’s curtain of hair, but he definitely does. 

It takes all of Viktor’s willpower not to pinch him again.

They walk back to the townhouse in companionable silence after that, and the hours in their relaxed day continue to speed by until it’s nearly over, the siblings now _ending_ their day side by side, too. 

The lights are dimmed, the fire is crackling, and the Nikiforov family are all crammed together like sardines on one section of the couch instead of using the entire thing, for some reason. Yuri looks secretly happy about it.

Even Potya and Makkachin are curled up together on the floor, but Viktor knows better than to be fooled by his poodle’s innocent looks and can already tell by the way her eyes are constantly darting to the oblivious cat that she won’t hesitate to pounce if Potya even moves a muscle.

Mingling with the light noise of traffic outside, some old, classic Russian film is playing on the TV, too—a comedy from the sixties that Viktor’s seen a dozen times throughout his childhood but could never tell you the name of (and only kind of likes because the protagonist’s voice is nice and so is his suit). Their parents are probably the only ones really enjoying it, but Viktor doesn’t dare kill the cozy mood by demanding they put on something else.

Viktor lets his mind wander, then, to the days ahead of him before he has to fly back to LA. He dwells on whether or not his parents actually listened to him and didn’t plan anything major for his birthday, and if his entire visit is going to be this peaceful or if some surprise family outings are also in the works… He leans his head back against the couch with a contented sigh. He’ll just have to deal with whatever happens as it comes.

With his eyes no longer trained on the TV, Viktor picks up on the way Yuri starts fidgeting restlessly beside him without a cellphone to whip out every five minutes, and that brings something else to mind that he forgot to include in his mental scheduling. 

Some afternoons, he assumes, Yuri won’t be around for Viktor to constantly pester and tease because he’ll be too busy with tutoring sessions, working through study material and assignments sent home over break. Viktor pouts.

Tutoring Yuri for hours on end, multiple times a week… that poor, poor teacher. Maybe Viktor should get him a Christmas card—slip a fifty in it, too.

Viktor leans over and flicks Yuri’s ear, and he just about jumps out of his skin before smacking Viktor’s arm hard enough to bruise. His parents aren’t even fazed. Viktor will remember to make a fuss about that later.

“Fucker— _what_?” Yuri hisses. “I’m trying to watch the movie.”

“No, you’re not.”

Yuri rolls his eyes.

“Do you like your new tutor?” Viktor asks, voice hushed. “He’s coming over during break, right?”

Yuri blows a strand of hair out of his face with much more aggression than necessary, then frowns at Viktor, wary. “... Why do you care?” 

Viktor shrugs. “Just thinking.” Meaning, he wants to hear more about how Yuri’s doing from his own mouth because he’s _curious_ and he’s _missed_ him, and right now seems like the perfect opportunity, but that’s probably a little too sentimental for his brother to handle.

The teen scoffs. “That’s new.”

Viktor swiftly reaches down to dig his fingers into Yuri’s side but he grabs Viktor’s wrist before he can, pushing all his fingers back until they crack and Viktor whimpers a pitiful, “ _ow, okay, sorry—stop!_ ”

“What’s he like?” Viktor presses once he regains feeling in his hand again, massaging the joints. “Mama says you get along well.”

Yuri flails his arms around a little in annoyance. “Why do you _care_?”

“I’m trying to bond with my little brother!”

“Fuck your bonding!”

“ _Yuraaa_ ,” Viktor whines, pressing as far as he can into his brother’s personal space without risking certain death. He’s honestly seconds away from just poking Yuri over and over again to get his attention.

“Oh my god, shut the— _fine_ , yeah. He’s alright,” Yuri grumbles and folds his arms across his chest, tensing up like it physically _pains_ him to admit that he likes someone even a little. “He likes cool music. Japanese stuff or whatever.” The glare he aims at Viktor then is sharp enough to cut. “And he’s not an old geezer like you.”

“He’s not?" Viktor frowns as soon as the words leave his mouth. Yuri snorts. Viktor may be getting older but he likes to think he hasn’t quite yet reached geezer territory. 

“No, he’s like, twenty-four or something—still in college,” Yuri replies, voice more bored than agitated now, “and he’s way fuckin’ cooler than my last tutor… not that it’s hard to be cooler than a seventy year old whose breath smells like ass.” 

“Respect your elders, Yura.”

“Bite me.”

Viktor finally backs off and rolls his own eyes this time. Having a conversation of any length with Yuri is always such an _ordeal_. 

But it seems Viktor was right in his previous assumption—he was _way_ off about the new tutor. He was picturing altered versions of the teachers before: grey hair, stress wrinkles, and ugly sweater vests. He’s glad his parents finally realized that sort of arrangement would always be destined to fail; having someone closer in age must make a world of a difference—make it easier to form a bond, that way. 

“I’m proud of you,” Viktor whispers, a small, genuine smile on his face so Yuri knows he means it. Yuri quirks an eyebrow, a vague look of disgust on his face. “For accepting the help you need, even if it is just for a class. I know that’s hard for you sometimes.”

Yuri tenses, shoulders climbing all the way up to his ears before he deflates completely and tries to melt away into the couch cushions. “Yeah, whatever,” he mumbles after a long pause, an obvious flush on his cheeks. “... Thanks.”

Viktor gives him a quick side hug and Yuri doesn’t try to squirm away. When he looks up, he sees his father watching them with a warm look in his eye and gives Viktor an approving thumbs up from his side of the couch. 

Viktor smiles even wider.

He sleeps better than he has in a long time that night.  
  


* * *

  
The next morning, however, is a total fucking disaster.

Well, internally, mostly… and probably only for Viktor, but _still_. 

His inner alarm clock wakes him up at around eight, but it’s hard to tell if that’s what rouses him or if it’s Makkachin crawling up onto his chest like she still weighs five pounds, not caring at all that she almost smothers him. 

Either way, he wraps his arms around her and rolls onto his side to breathe a little easier, burrowing further into his cocoon of fluffy, down blankets and expensive pillows with a tired sigh.

He may have slept deeply last night but it’s left his eyelids exceedingly heavy now that he’s trying to force himself awake, groggy and sluggish. His mind still swirls with faint memories of weirdly intense dreams that Viktor blames entirely on the NSYNC posters still hanging up in his childhood bedroom, but he tries to push those out of his mind as quickly as possible because Justin Timberlake _really_ isn’t his type anymore.

He blindly flops his hand around on the nightstand until it smacks into what he was searching for, then he spends the next few minutes idly scrolling through his phone, checking the notifications he’s ignored since his arrival in New York.

Eyes bleary, he scrolls and likes, scrolls and likes, getting in the interaction he hasn’t been able to the last couple of days on Makkachin’s Instagram account, which also doubles as a promotional page for the grooming shop back in West Hollywood—in the end, him showing off the account dedicated to his precious lady is what landed him his job, years ago.

With that in mind, he makes sure to send Chris a few texts, too.

 **Viktor:** _Has the shop burned to the ground yet?_

 **GiaCumetti** **💋** **:** _You do realize I owned this place years before I even met you, yes? x_

 **Viktor:** _Well, yeah, but I’m why people always come back_ ( ´ ♡ ` ) _!_

 **GiaCumetti** **💋** **:** _So self-important, mon cher… Hey, when you get back we should—_

Viktor closes that text before he can even read the rest and refuses to open the next one when he sees the words ‘gay bar’ and ‘belly button’ and decides he definitely doesn’t want to know.

With a yawn, he plugs his phone back in and finally sits up, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and running a hand through his hair. Makkachin huffs at having her human heater removed and slides under the blankets until only her tail is visible, hiding from the rest of the world and a certain imperious cat while she can.

Always the easily amused dog dad, Viktor laughs at her antics and scratches over the lump in the blanket. The sound quickly turns to a groan, though, when his drowsiness hits him again full force. He rubs his hands over his face. A shower seems in order if he wants to feel like a person again anytime soon. But he hears voices already coming from the kitchen—a younger voice included, meaning _Yuri_ is already up and capable of conversation, too, which is… weird, but… He shakes his head.

He should probably go down there and tell them not to let their breakfast go cold while they wait for him, since he currently feels like a walking corpse and is going to need a while to get himself together. He would _much_ rather sleep for a few more hours, honestly, but the grace period for being ‘lazy’ is over, and his mother would probably come dump a bucket of ice water on him if he did. 

It takes a good five minutes of mental preparation before he finally lugs himself out of bed. 

Morning makes itself apparent as sunlight bounces off the piles of snow outside and shines through the tall windows scattered around the house, close to blinding when it hits him. Viktor squints against the brightness as he shuffles across the hall and down the stairs, gripping the railing so he doesn’t topple over. He vaguely registers that Yuri’s door is still closed when he passes it, which should be sign number one that he’s about to walk in on something he definitely isn’t ready for, but alas, in his state, he doesn’t think anything of it. 

He greets Potya with a scratch under her chin when they cross paths and makes his way down to the first story of the house, already feeling more alert now that he’s up and moving. The voices that were nothing more than dull mumbles upstairs grow louder as he approaches, but one particular cadence and tone is unfamiliar enough to make his steps falter. He frowns.

He doesn’t recall his mother mentioning any short notice business meetings happening anytime soon, and contrary to popular belief, Viktor isn’t _that_ forgetful—he just has a _very_ selective memory, okay? It’s definitely _not_ early-onset dementia no matter how often Yuri claims that’s exactly what it is. He would’ve remembered something like that being mentioned, especially having dealt with it so many times before, growing up.

He nods to himself. With that settled, he trudges on, sleepily rubbing his eyes as he turns the corner into the kitchen, and… 

Okay, well.

He was right: it wasn’t dementia—definitely didn’t forget anything. But there _is_ a hot stranger in his house. So there’s that.

All at once, Viktor is suddenly _wide_ awake. He’s also hyper aware of the fact that his bedhead is probably _horrendous_ , that he’s still totally shirtless, and he doesn’t even want to think about the bags he can literally _feel_ under his eyes right now.

He longingly eyes the Christmas tree, desperately wishing he could just shrivel up and hide under it forever, slide behind the presents like Potya does. It’s pretty big, actually… maybe he could just try doing that now.

But he’s _Viktor_ , so rather than letting the absolute meltdown show on his face, he plasters on a surprised but welcoming smile instead. His mother’s always seen right through that, though, and she gives him a quick, knowing glance from across the kitchen.

“Good morning!” he announces in a frantic attempt to squash the awkward silence. His voice cracks because of _course_ it does. “I uh…” His smile definitely looks a little strained now; it has to. He can feel it. “Didn’t realize we had company. My bad.” 

“Nonsense,” his mother cuts in with a wave of her hand. Her smile is brighter than all of her Christmas lights combined. “I was actually just going to call you down so I could introduce you two!”

Viktor meets his mother’s eyes with a bemused quirk of his brow, smile still in place, and gives the man beside her a once over. Viktor notices immediately that he seems to be a walking mix of contradictions.

The stranger’s standing tall, back straight like that of a dancer, average height, but he radiates an air of bashfulness that makes him appear even smaller. The thin glasses perched atop his nose are delightfully dorky, too, though his slicked back hair and rich, brown eyes combined form a style that is exceptionally attractive rather than nerdy.

Well… no, he still looks a little nerdy. But it’s _endearing_ , and Viktor’s pulse picks up speed just looking at him. He somehow exudes both timorousness and quiet confidence simultaneously. 

Yeah, Viktor _really_ wishes he was more prepared to meet this man.

“Introduce?” he asks.

Anastasia responds with a hum, nodding. “This is Yura’s new tutor, Yuuri.” She places a comforting hand on the man’s shoulder and he jumps a foot in the air at suddenly being acknowledged, looking decidedly anxious. “Yuuri, this is my oldest, Viktor.”

Yuuri is… staring. At him. Very hard. It makes Viktor want to fidget. But Viktor isn’t the type to _fidget_ , so he clasps his hands firmly behind his back.

Yuuri’s wide eyes are magnified behind blue framed glasses, and he’s gazing intently as if Viktor stumbling into his own kitchen half asleep is like witnessing the second coming of Christ—but he could also be staring in disgust because Viktor doesn’t doubt for a second that he looks like death warmed over, and now he’s even _more_ nervous because he can’t tell which one it _is_.

Viktor quickly runs a hand through his hair, unusually self-conscious.

The swift movement seems to catch Yuuri’s attention, realizing that’s probably his cue to say something, and he blinks rapidly for a moment, collecting himself. When he speaks, his voice is warm and timid. “O-oh, _you’re_ … Viktor?” 

“That, I am,” Viktor replies, his smile wry. “I’m assuming mama’s mentioned me, then?”

Anastasia interjects. “Of course I have. It’s a mother’s job to brag about her children every chance she gets.”

“Right.” Viktor rolls his eyes, fond and a little embarrassed. Remembering himself with a start, Viktor finally steps further into the kitchen, just barely avoiding jolting forward and tripping over his own feet with how high strung he is. He puts a hand out. “Sorry—it's nice to finally meet you, Yuuri. My family adores you,” he says with an earnest smile. Yuuri returns the handshake almost robotically, his palm clammy. 

“And I feel quite the same, honestly,” Viktor adds with a wink, “even with the little I’ve heard so far. Anyone who can get along with Yura so quickly is definitely worthy of adoration.” He can _feel_ his mother’s eye roll without even looking at her. Viktor’s definitely laying it on thick here.

“Oh, _wow_ , that’s—” Yuuri struggles to finish his sentence, face flushed as he lets their hands drop. “Thank you?” It comes out like a question and the tutor clears his throat. “Thank you,” he repeats, with much more conviction and a stilted bow. “Yurio’s a great student when he puts in the effort. He’s really a bright kid, lot of potential.” He clamps his mouth shut then, like he’s afraid to ramble.

Meanwhile, the flow of praise directed at his mother’s youngest hellspawn has her glowing with pride, and Viktor pushes down a laugh. “Yuri _o_?” 

Yuri’s gone through many a nickname during his school years thus far: some cute and teasing and others… well, _not_ very cute, but probably deserved, knowing him. ‘Yurio’ is certainly a first, though.

Somehow, Yuuri’s sweet face reddens even further. “Ah, it… felt weird saying my own name all the time so I sort of… picked a nickname.” He fiddles with the sides of his glasses, then shrugs. “He pretends to hate it but I think it’s growing on him.” 

Viktor opens his mouth to make a promise on using it later just to irritate him, but his mother swoops in before he can, idly wiping down the counters as she speaks.

“I must say, I apologize on behalf of Viktor’s appearance, Yuuri. I promise he’s usually much more put together.” She shoots Viktor a meaningful glance and he instinctively corrects his posture, feeling like a child being scolded for acting unseemly in front of important guests. Out of the corner of his eye, Viktor definitely sees Yuuri stifle a laugh behind his hand. This morning is going _so_ well. 

“Your kid moves to California for a few years and comes back acting like they were raised in a barn,” she prattles on with a sigh. He can tell she’s mostly joking, but it doesn’t make it any less mortifying.

“Mama! I—” He stops, takes a breath, and forces a chuckle. He locks gazes with his mother and they have about a thousand petty arguments through their eyes alone. “I wasn’t expecting anyone else to be here,” he counters. “If you’d warned me beforehand I would’ve put some clothes on, at least.”

Is this Viktor’s punishment for ignoring his best friend’s belly button text? Crippling embarrassment?

Yuuri waves his hands in protest, clearly not wanting to be caught in the middle of this family squabble. “Oh, no, don’t worry about it! It’s fine, really! I mean.” He rocks back and forth on his toes, searching for the right words. “It’s your house. You could walk around completely naked for all I care.”

Viktor likes Yuuri. Viktor likes Yuuri a _lot_. The smile he gives his mother in response to that must look absolutely ridiculous. 

Anastasia glances between the two of them like she can’t quite figure out what’s going on, but she can’t look away, either.

And Yuuri makes a noise like he’s choking on his own spit. “I mean not that I—! That you—!” He sighs, long-suffering, then pushes his glasses up to tiredly rub at his eyes. “You know what I mean.” 

Viktor can feel the grin splitting his face in half and making his eyes crinkle. His _real_ one: all heart-shaped and goofy and entirely Alexei’s. “I’ll keep that in mind, Yuuri!” 

Yuuri’s entire body seems to seize in response and he swiftly turns to pick up the mug of tea Viktor’s just now noticing on the counter behind him. It has to be cold by now. Stuttering, he holds it up to cover the bottom half of his face and points to the stairs. “O-okay. Uh, I should… bring this to Yuri. Wake him up a little before our lesson. I…” He awkwardly bows in Viktor’s direction a second time. “It was nice meeting you.” His voice is clipped and fast, but at least it sounds like he means it.

Viktor watches the tutor scurry toward the stairs as fast as his legs will carry him, and offers a dazed, “You too.”

“A-and thank you for the invite, Nastya!” Yuuri calls once he’s halfway up, spinning to face them. “I’ll let you know.”

“Of course. I had to invite you,” his mother replies kindly. She makes a shooing motion with the towel in her hand. “Now, go—you’re making _me_ anxious.” 

Yuuri gives a curt nod and rushes the rest of the way to Yuri’s bedroom, careful not to spill any tea while he goes. Viktor watches, still spellbound, as Yuuri gently knocks on the door and shuffles in once it’s opened with a grouchy, “took you long enough,” from his brother. 

When the door clicks shut behind them, Viktor collapses to the floor hard enough to make the dishes in the cupboards rattle.

“I can’t believe you,” he murmurs into the hardwood.

His mother _tsk_ s and pokes his stomach with her foot. Viktor squawks and squirms away. “Vitya, that’s gross,” she chides. “I haven’t swept yet; the floor is filthy.”

It’s not. Viktor saw her sweep yesterday morning _and_ last night. So he’s allowed to wallow in his misery right here on the kitchen floor for as long as he wants.

He rolls onto his back and groans, woefully. “Mama, I’m dying… and it’s your fault!” he exclaims, shooting up to lean on his elbows. “You just killed your own son!”

Anastasia stares down at him, arms crossed. She has the audacity to look _amused_.

“Why didn’t you didn’t tell me Yura’s tutor was a _model_ and that he was _here_?” he whines. He’s already mentally flipping through scenarios that could have been much more romantic if only he’d been given a heads up. “I wouldn’t have come down half naked!” Well… “Okay, maybe I—” 

“I thought you would’ve heard us talking!” she says with a dismissive shrug. Viktor watches with a pout as she turns on her heel and makes her way to the fridge, sleek ponytail swinging behind her. “I swear,” she mumbles, rummaging through ingredients, “all of your father’s dramatics got passed down to you with not an ounce saved for your brother.”

Viktor flops back down to the floor. He doesn’t know how he feels about that statement. He may be a bit of a drama queen, yes, but Yuri’s still an asshole.

“I _did_ hear you, but I thought—!” Viktor stops when he sees Potya slink up beside him, nose turned up in the air. She casually hops onto his chest, kneads her claws directly into his skin, and then sits herself down right on his face. 

Viktor sighs, and then laments into a mouthful of fur, “Nobody in this house cares about my suffering.”

His mother just _laughs_.

* * *

  
“Vitya,” she sighs, ten minutes later when he’s still on the floor.

“Yes?”

“Go put some damn clothes on.”  
  


* * *

  
The rest of the morning is, in a word, torture. 

He does finally get that shower in, at least, and yes, he does put some clothes on, too—though he was tempted to just lounge around naked and see what sort of reaction that got, but then he remembered he’s not entirely sure of Yuuri’s preferences; he could’ve been acting so skittish earlier because he’s tremendously straight, but Viktor _really_ hopes that’s not the case ( _please_ , don’t let that be the case)—and the rest of his time is spent bumbling around the house with a sort of nervous energy he’s never really felt before. 

He follows his increasingly annoyed mother around like a lost puppy while she cooks and cleans, and Makkachin seems to pick up on his restlessness because she does much of the same, winding through his parents’ legs until someone ends up tripping every five minutes. Viktor gets told off but _she_ doesn’t, of course. No one has the heart to make sweet Makka feel guilty about anything.

He hovers behind his father like a shadow in his office while he sketches out a new design for a dress to be worn by some up and coming celebrity Viktor’s never heard of, and for an award show he’ll probably watch anyway when he’s bored a few months from now: a long gown with a cinched waist, massive ruffles, and colored in a striking, vibrant magenta. 

When Viktor starts making comments about how hideous ruffles are, his father promptly kicks him out.

He even responds to Chris, the mysterious belly button text having something to do with Viktor needing to film Chris the next time someone does a body shot off of him because it’s _exciting_ and _erotic_ and he absolutely _needs_ to have a moment like that preserved forever since nobody filmed it last time. 

**GiaCumetti** **💋** **:** _Plus, my mother asked how life is in LA and I thought I’d be honest_ 🤷🏼.

Viktor’s friends are unhinged.

When his puttering around becomes too much to bear for everyone in the house including _himself_ , Viktor finally tries to work up the courage to do what he’s been wanting to this entire time: find an excuse to talk to Yuuri again.

He can hear mumbling through the walls, likely riveting conversations about equations Viktor’s brain threw out the second he graduated, together with the constant rustle of paper and Yuuri’s soothing tone mingled alongside Yuri’s angry hissing. 

But what excuse can Viktor, an almost twenty-eight year old definitely _not_ in school anymore, come up with to insert himself in the middle of a tutoring session between a beautiful stranger and his younger brother without making things excruciatingly awkward?

None. Literally none.

He could knock and poke his head in just to check up on them, but that’d last maybe two seconds. Or he could go in under the guise of Chris asking some complex math question and Viktor having no idea how to answer, so he _must_ seek help from the pretty, helpful, amazing teacher in his house right now. But Yuri would probably see right through that and say something awful about Chris thinking too much with his dick to ever think about anything related to _math_.

Which… true—but rude.

However, a decent reason presents itself when he ambles downstairs for the third time just to see what his mother’s up to again (because he hasn’t been down there in ten minutes, and who knows, maybe she’s doing something completely different now!). When he enters the kitchen, Anastasia cuts his path off with an insistent, “No! _No_ , get out of here. Vitya. Take these and _go_ ,” and shoves a bag of chips into his hands.

 _Oh_.

That could work.

Except it doesn’t. 

Because when he sprints back up the stairs and has his hand poised to knock, Yuuri opens it before he can, seemingly all packed up and ready to leave.

A piping shriek leaves Yuuri’s mouth in surprise and he brings his notebook up like a shield. Thinking he’s literally about to be smacked, Viktor fails not to flinch. Though, if he’s being honest with himself, he’d probably willingly let Yuuri smack him anyway.

“ _Oh_ , it’s you,” Yuuri breathes once his eyes flutter back open. He presses a hand to his chest. “I—sorry. You startled me.”

Viktor smiles, reassuring. “It seems we keep meeting when one of us isn’t expecting it,” he notes, then holds up the snacks in his hand. “Mama told me to bring these up, but…” Viktor’s gaze wanders over the bag zipped closed and slung over Yuuri’s shoulder, no loose papers in sight, and has to mask the disappointment in his voice. “I guess you’re leaving already?”

“Ah, yeah, that was the plan; our time’s up. Sorry.” He sounds genuinely apologetic, though his voice still wobbles with nerves. Anxious seems to be his default. Viktor watches as Yuuri distractedly runs a hand through his hair and finally steps out into the hall, a few pesky strands refusing to stay in place. It’s a good look on him. 

Yuuri continues, and Viktor listens. “We usually work in the mornings to get it out of the way ‘cause I know it’s not his favorite thing in the world—well, math isn’t usually anyone’s favorite thing in the world; it’s not even mine—but…” His rambling trails off as he glances down at his watch and frowns. His eyes flicker up to Viktor, then back down again. “I, uh. Have to get to class soon, actually.”

Viktor jumps at the reminder that this man has a _life_ and _things to do_ , and can’t just hang around while Viktor helplessly pines all day. “Right!” He tacks on a quick apology and steps out of the way to give Yuuri full access to the stairs. “I’d hate for you to be late because of me.”

As Yuuri smiles sheepishly and moves to leave, Viktor reaches out to touch his shoulder before he can stop himself, his limbs suddenly having a mind of their own. “And—Yuuri, it really was nice meeting you,” he says, dragging the interaction out even though he just promised he _wouldn’t_. “Thank you again for helping out.”

The tutor looks pinned to the spot, eyes wide and sparkling and cheeks growing rosy. “It’s nothing,” he eventually replies, diffident. “I, um, really have to go now, but… it was great to finally meet you, too, Viktor.” Yuuri smiles up at him, and this one looks like it comes a little easier.

The tutor turns around again once he reaches the stairs. “I… Will you tell Nastya that I left?” he asks. “And that I’ll… definitely think more on that invite?” 

“Of course.” Viktor grins and gives an exaggerated bow, then straightens with a wink. “You have my word.”

Yuuri gapes like a fish for a moment and then gives him a parting nod and a quiet goodbye, rushing down the stairs and out the door into the frigid, Manhattan snow before he can even get his coat back on.

Viktor is left standing there with his heart pounding in his chest like a schoolgirl with a crush.

Once the coast is clear and it doesn’t seem like Yuuri is coming back anytime soon for something he may have forgotten, Viktor spins around and all but kicks Yuri’s door in.

His eyes are immediately assaulted by the endless amount of leopard print covering jackets, bags, pillows, and shoes scattered around the room (there’s even a pair in _purple_ , and how he got Alexei to agree to something so ugly being allowed in the house, Viktor hasn’t the slightest idea). Posters of rock bands are haphazardly plastered to every wall and a guitar is leaning precariously against a cheap stand in the corner—and yes, even the strap on that is leopard print, too. The room is the quintessence of an edgy teenager: all spikes, studs, and chains, fashionably ripped skinny jeans and leather jackets.

At least it doesn’t smell bad. 

The door knocks into the wall and Yuri jumps at the sudden noise, his phone flying out of his hand as he slams his elbow into the headboard, and Viktor charges in. “Ow! _Bitch_ ,” the blonde hisses and cradles his arm against his chest. He shoots Viktor a fierce glare. “What is your _problem_?!”

Viktor doesn’t dignify that with a response, throwing the chips to the floor and then catapulting himself onto the bed. His twig of a brother shouts as he bounces off the mattress and into the air, and Viktor clasps a hand around his arm, pinning it above him so he can’t run away, like Yuri’s a wild animal ready to bolt. 

“Yura!” he exclaims. “Why did no one tell me that your tutor is the cutest thing in the _world_?” Yuri tries to knee him in the stomach, but Viktor easily dodges it. “When is he coming back? Just for dinner? Do you have any more lessons together soon?”

“What are you— _ew!_ ” Yuri shrieks in his face, still struggling against his hold. “Don’t be gross, old man! Perving on my fucking tutor.”

Viktor leans back, eyes squinted and scanning. He gasps. “You can’t fool family, Yura!” Viktor shouts. “You think he’s cute, too!”

Yuri makes an obnoxious, fake gagging noise, which is really unpleasant to experience up close, and pushes back hard enough for them to roll onto their sides, still grabbing at each other’s arms in some weird, terribly executed wrestling hold. “I’m not—! I don’t—!” Yuri splutters, face red. “Not like _that_ , but I have fucking _eyes_!”

“Is he coming back?”

“I’m not telling you shit!”

“Yura!”

“Mama!” Yuri calls out, after he _bites_ Viktor’s hand and he _still_ doesn’t let go. “Vitya’s being weird!”

Their mother’s voice travels up the stairs. “Nothing new!”

Yuri’s groan bellows in his ears, almost deafening, and he sags against the bed, going limp in Viktor’s arms. “I hate my family.”

“No, you don’t!” Viktor coos and finally lets up. He leans over his brother, now lying on his back and catching his breath, and repeatedly squishes his cheeks together with one hand. “You love us _so, so_ much, and we love _you_!”

That seems to set Yuri off again, and his teenage angst somehow manifests into physical strength. His brother lurches forward and grabs him by the shoulders, Viktor squealing as he’s hauled out of bed, and practically manhandles him across the room and toward the door, all while grumbling something about “ _idiot brothers_ ” and “ _fucking annoying_ ”.

“If you give me his schedule, I’ll buy you a new phone,” Viktor bargains, tone pleading as he tries not to trip over his own feet.

“No.”

“I’ll buy you a new acoustic guitar? Something shiny and _really_ expensive!”

Yuri growls in response to that, shoving him out the door, but Viktor jams his foot in before it can close. “I play _bass_ not _guitar_!” he seethes, and that… sounds awfully familiar. Viktor has a feeling he’s been told that a thousand times by now. “And you can’t bribe me, you balding asshole!”

To avoid being physically kicked out when he still hasn’t gotten any answers, Viktor makes a last-ditch effort to keep the conversation going. “How’s Otabek?” he inquires, smiling sweetly, breathless from holding the door open with his shoulder now. “You still have a crush on him, right? I could buy him something instead! Would that work?”

The pressure against the door goes slack for a second and Yuri’s face flickers through a dozen different emotions; it kind of looks like he just sucked on a lemon, and his cheeks are as red as the lipstick worn by the bands on his posters. “I don’t have a—!” Yuri doesn’t finish his sentence and opts for snarling wordlessly instead. He starts pushing on the door again. “No—get out! Right now!”

Viktor whines. “Oh, there’s nothing to be ashamed of, Yura! Males with older brothers are 38% more likely to be gay!”

“Stop being a _freak_!” 

And then the door is slammed in his face. It takes all of Viktor’s willpower not to slide down it like he’s in the hospital of some terrible medical drama and just found out his wife is dying. 

He sighs to himself, sulking already. First he misses the opportunity for more conversation with Yuuri and then he finds out he’s weak enough to be dragged around by a lanky fifteen year old… 

Before he can mope for too long, though, the door is jerked wide open with a loud _whoosh_ and a bag of chips goes flying past his head and over the railing into the living room. 

“I don’t even like this kind!” Yuri shouts. “God, you _suck_!”

Yeah. It seems Viktor is going to have to find answers elsewhere.   
  


* * *

  
He ends up harassing his mother for answers, which she readily gives because she clearly doesn’t want to deal with Viktor again for the rest of the day, understandably. He learns that Yuuri will be here for the celebratory dinner along with every other day after that until New Years Eve, and he may even be invited to that party, too, if he doesn’t have anything planned already. 

With that in mind, Viktor rushes to his room with Makkachin in tow and plans out his outfits for the next week.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy new year! I hope you all celebrated as much as you could last night and also _safely_ ( ◡‿◡ ♡) My new years gift to you is Yuuri being introduced to the story and some more Dumb Sibling Interaction. Also, I use 'tutor' and 'teacher' interchangeably, but Yuuri is still just a college student. He is working to become a teacher, though, and I'll give more details on that later! :)
> 
> And fun fact: I also play bass like Yuri in this and the amount of times people have handed me a guitar and said, "Oh, then you can play this, right? Play something for us!" is unreal lmfao. And it's always incredibly awkward when I have to just... decline and hand it back. >.>
> 
> **Comments & kudos are greatly appreciated! Comments especially encourage me to keep posting (o´▽`o)ﾉ**


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

  
Christmas Eve starts off with something Viktor was expecting to happen eventually, he was just waiting for his mother to drop it on him whenever she decided it was finally time, and that is: a day of forced brotherly bonding.

Once again, Viktor wakes up groggy and disoriented—which is to be expected, really, since the whole Hot Tutor Incident™ (as Viktor now calls it) left him feeling a little wired and unable to get to bed at a decent time last night. He’d spent longer than he cares to admit laying out an assortment of clothes on the bed, deciding which jackets paired best with the shirts he’d packed, and whether the leather gloves he’d brought with him were sexy or if they really just made him look like the scary, intimidating Russian man that Americans tend to see him as. 

This time, fortunately, he rouses to the clinking of dishes being placed on the table downstairs and faint, amicable chatter—no unfamiliar voices—with Makkachin curled up sound asleep by his feet. 

He rolls out of bed with a huff, stretching his limbs and pointedly ignoring the way his back crackles and pops like a plastic water bottle being twisted when he turns to the side. Makkachin sighs, grumpy over being jostled awake, but slowly starts to drift off again—at least until Potya makes the mistake of poking her head in, then the poodle is leaping off the bed like her sole purpose in life is to chase after the not-so-innocent cat, only to bark up a storm once she finally has her cornered. 

Viktor watches with a tired smile and heads to the bathroom. He’ll let Yuri deal with that one.

In contrast to his still dim bedroom, the bathroom is dazzling when he switches the light on: all stark white walls, marble tiling, and sleek, black countertops. And once all of his products are laid out, he makes sure to take his _sweet_ time getting ready. If there are any other devastatingly handsome strangers that his mother’s been hiding from him in the house again, he’d like to give her a moment to come upstairs and warn him like she planned on doing yesterday, so he doesn’t make an idiot out of himself a second time.

He dresses quickly and brushes his teeth, then dives into his monster of a skincare routine—the importance of which was drilled into his head by one _very_ high maintenance Alexei Nikiforov (who looks great for his age, might he add, so there must be some truth to his lectures)—drizzling serums and lotions over his face and patting them in before finishing up with a dot of concealer under his eyes. 

He knows he’s taken long enough, and starts to get an inkling for what today’s plans are, when Yuri yells from downstairs, “Will you hurry up and get down here already?! We know you’re awake!” And because he’s such a kind child, he makes sure to add, “heavy ass footsteps.”

Viktor sighs to himself and quells an amused smile, biting his lip. He doesn’t condone his brother’s behavior in the slightest and his insults aren’t funny _at all_. Definitely not. 

When his mother even starts to coax him into joining them, he gives himself one last once over in the mirror—skin smooth and not a hair out of place—and makes his way down. 

He’s greeted by Yuri as soon as he steps into the kitchen. “Put enough moisturizer on that forehead?” he asks.

Viktor skids to a stop and squawks in indignance, slapping a hand over his forehead with a pout. 

Maybe he should’ve taken the extra second to apply some of that powder in his bag.

“Ignore him. He’s just mad I made him put pants on before noon,” his mother sighs, spinning around from the counter with all her usual grace and placing a stack of waffles in front of Yuri. With the plate balanced in her hand and the swiftness of her movements, Viktor can’t help but compare her to a waitress at a retro diner, gliding on rollerskates. 

She turns to face him, smiling bright. “Merry Christmas Eve, Vitya!” she exclaims, voice high and excited as she pulls him in for a hug. “And happy early birth—” Viktor cuts her off with a groan. 

“Oh, come _on_.” She pulls away with a disapproving frown. “You’re still in your twenties. I don’t want to hear anything about being old while you’re around me,” she scolds. “Or I’ll replace your anti-aging cream with mayonnaise.” 

Viktor reaches out to grip her shoulders. “You wouldn’t.”

She just raises an eyebrow in challenge. Viktor glances over to his father, who’s quietly sipping his coffee against the island and refusing to get involved. The look in his eye, though, tells Viktor that she’s done something similar before and isn’t afraid to do it again. 

“ _Fine_. I’m young, dumb, and wrinkle free—practically a newborn,” Viktor sighs in defeat and trudges over to the table, collapsing in the empty seat beside Yuri.

He reaches out to tug on a lock of his brother’s hair and the teen instinctively retaliates, trying but failing to stab him with a fork. He nearly stabs a hole in the expensive, maple dining table instead, and they both jump and lock eyes, communicating in that sort of scared, regretful way only siblings can when they realize their roughhousing almost got them _both_ in trouble.

Viktor settles back in his seat when his mother sets a plate down in front of him, too, and he smiles in thanks. “So, what’s got the kitten up so bright and early?” he asks. Yuri kicks him under the table.

“Well,” his father starts, setting his cup in the sink, “your mama and I planned a little breakfast date, so we’ll be gone, and we thought it’d be a good opportunity for you and your brother to spend some time together—just the two of you.”

Anastasia rolls her eyes with a smile. “He planned it and surprised me about thirty minutes ago, is what he means.”

“Have to keep the romance alive somehow, darling!” Alexei says, his mother squealing as he grabs hold of her arm and spins her around until she’s pressed against his chest. His bold, polka-dotted button-up billows with the motion. “Spontaneity is key!”

“Gross,” Yuri grumbles.

Viktor flicks his arm, watching his parents with a fond expression. “Don’t be rude, Yura. They’re in _love_.” 

“Okay, well, stop being in _love_ while I’m trying to eat my damn waffles.”

Alexei lets go of his wife with a dramatic sigh and rests his elbow on the island, chin in his palm. “Charming little family we have here.”

“ _Anyway_ ,” his mother continues, pointedly ignoring Yuri’s request. “We would just leave you two here, but I wouldn’t put it past Yura to run off somewhere else as soon as we’re gone.” She shoots Yuri a knowing look and he grunts wordlessly. “So we’re all leaving at the same time… and I’m locking the door like I always do, so you can’t sneak back in, either,” she says, her tone leaving no room for argument. 

Yuri makes a multitude of angry, confused noises before finally spitting out, “You’re literally _forcing_ us to spend time together?” He gives Viktor an irritated glare, then turns back to Anastasia, blonde hair swinging. “What if spending so much time around him makes me sick and I throw up or something, can I come home then?”

His mother quirks an eyebrow and plays along, mollifying. “If your brother’s presence alone somehow makes you violently ill in public, then yes, you can come home.”

Yuri nods, seemingly satisfied. “Cool.”

Viktor feels like he should be offended that just thinking about being around him for longer than five minutes causes his brother such great distress, but he’s gotten used to that sort of reaction over the years and is well aware that Yuri just doesn’t want to admit how much he really does enjoy Viktor’s company. Yuri’s not as good at hiding his affection as he thinks he is.

Besides, when he’s older, Yuri will appreciate the fact that Viktor made an effort to stick around; that he kept in contact with his younger brother despite the large age gap and even spent hours with him, just the two of them, when Viktor didn’t really have to.

He smiles to himself. “Any idea what we should do while we’re out?” 

His mother perks up, pleased that at least one of them seems to be excited about it. “An outdoor skating rink opened up nearby!” she replies. “It might be a little crowded today, but I was thinking you could go there if you can’t decide on anything else. You’re both good at it.” She shrugs. “Manhattan’s big, though. I’m sure you’ll find something.”

Viktor isn’t _that_ good—he hasn’t gone skating in years, didn’t get the chance to during his last visit—and can already feel his ass hitting the ice when he inevitably slips and falls in front of an entire crowd of people. But if Yuri’s up for it… 

He glances over to his brother with an eyebrow raised in question. Yuri shrugs with a frown, which is as good as a yes, for him. 

Viktor grins. “Ice skating it is!”

They clean up the kitchen and shuffle out of the house after that, saying quick goodbyes as they head off to their separate cars, and Yuri drags his feet behind Viktor as they go, his hoodie zipped all the way up and pulled over his head.

Because they’re in a rental, Viktor doesn’t stop Yuri from immediately propping his feet up on the dashboard, but he does still side-eye him about it. If he pulled that in Viktor’s Cadillac, he’d be seconds away from just shoving Yuri out of the car. Yuri ignores him and leans forward to turn the radio on, settling on the same metal station he always claims to hate for playing ‘shitty bands’ but insists on switching to anyway since it’s supposedly better than anything else that’s on.

Viktor breaks the silence after a few minutes. “When was the last time you went skating?” he asks.

Being a dancer and living in Russia for so long led to his mother meeting and befriending many skaters over the years, making the ice a common entity in her life even if she wasn’t a skater herself. When they’d first moved to New York, his mother was quick to find work collaborating and assisting in multiple dance shows put on around the city, and that’s where she eventually met one of her now closest friends, Lilia—a dancer who’s done ballet her entire life as well.

And because Russians seem to flock to each other no matter where they are, Lilia also happens to be married to a stern man named Yakov, a figure skating coach, and often helps with choreography when necessary, once again leading the ice to becoming somewhat of a constant for Anastasia even so far away from her home country. 

VIktor may miss living in New York at times, being so far away from his family, but one thing he certainly doesn’t miss is being constantly hounded by Lilia and forced into her studio even though he’s insisted time and time again that he _doesn’t_ want to be a dancer and _yes_ , he’s absolutely sure of that. She somehow has a way of always getting him in there, though, never failing to make him feel like it’s an honor she’s even offering in the first place.

Yakov was never any better, badgering him alongside his wife to put on a pair of skates instead of slippers so he could see what Viktor could do. Yuri—poor, poor Yuri, with _years_ ahead of him before he’s even allowed to move out—still has to endure that on the regular. 

“Couple months ago,” Yuri mumbles. Viktor hums in encouragement and his brother continues. “Mama and I stopped by the rink ‘cause she needed to drop something off for Lilia and then Yakov talked me into putting skates on.” 

Sarcastically, Viktor replies, “I bet Lilia was happy about that.” 

His brother scoffs. “Ecstatic,” he says, rolling his eyes. “She can suck it, though. Ballet and skating are _both_ lame, but the ice is cooler. I guess.”

Viktor beams in delight. “Yura! Did you just make a pun?”

“I— _god_ —shut _up._ I didn’t mean to,” Yuri groans and sinks into his seat, then yanks his hood down over his face, effectively shutting Viktor out and putting an end to their conversation. Just for that, Viktor reaches over and tugs Yuri’s legs off the dashboard. 

The drive continues in companionable silence—well, as silent as this city can get. They don’t talk much but Yuri constantly throws his hand out to randomly honk the horn, just to make Viktor mad. When they’re a few minutes away from the rink, though, Viktor is hit with a sudden question he’s itching to ask. 

“And, uh, just to double check…” he starts, “Yuuri _isn’t_ … coming over today?” Yuri’s mouth twists to the side in response, and he looks down his nose at Viktor through the blonde hair falling over his eyes. Viktor stiffens in his seat, feigning innocence. “I’m just curious!”

“Curious, my _ass_ , old man. You wanna suck face with my tutor so bad you can’t even handle being away from him for a _day_ ,” Yuri says, arms crossed. Viktor doesn’t really have anything to say to that, but whatever look flashes across his face makes Yuri give in with an exasperated groan. “ _No_ , he’s not coming today. And he wasn’t even supposed to come tomorrow, but he agreed to show up for your birthday dinner. For some reason.” 

Viktor relaxes, a giddy smile involuntarily making its way onto his face. “That’s all I wanted to know.”

His mother was definitely right in her assumption that the rink would be especially crowded today. When they pull up and miraculously find a parking space close by, Viktor can already see people waiting in line for rental skates and groups of others spinning gracelessly across the stretch of ice that’s sectioned off, looking like clusters of ants from where they’re standing.

Loud Christmas music is blaring from… somewhere, the sound carrying joyfully through the air, and the city is eminently bright. Yesterday’s snow is piled high where it’s been pushed out of walkways and the varicolored lights dispersed among desolate trees and bustling businesses are turned on despite it being early morning, making the streets around them practically dazzle. A fake pine tree stands tall just outside the rink, too, decorated just as excessively as everything around it, making a great backdrop for the many happy couples and tourists currently posing in front of it. 

The two brothers wait in line to each rent a pair of skates and then tie them up side by side, and when they take that first step out onto the ice, Viktor can physically see the way Yuri seems to relax: his shoulders dropping ever so slightly, the tension in his body releasing. He may never plan on skating professionally, but it still seems to be somewhat of a stress reliever for him, even if they are surrounded by an endless amount of clumsy strangers.

Viktor takes a bit longer to find his footing, gripping the railing until Yuri’s teasing starts to garner the attention of others and Viktor reluctantly lets go, feeling embarrassingly like a newborn deer with the way his legs are shaking. After a few tremulous laps, muscle memory finally kicks in and Viktor glides smoothly across the ice beside his brother, who insists on showing off to the toddlers nearby by doing a few jumps and spins like he has something to prove.

“So, how have you been?” Viktor asks, once they’ve made it around the rink a couple more times and he’s confident he won’t go careening into someone anytime soon. 

Yuri bristles, shoulders tensing up again. “Ew, are you trying to make small talk?”

“It’d only be small talk if I didn’t care what your answer was,” Viktor replies, patiently, and just barely stops himself from rolling his eyes, “but I _do_. So— _how have you been_?”

If he’s being honest with himself, Viktor knows he hasn’t always been the best brother. He has a tendency to get lost in his own head, becomes blind to the struggles of those around him because he’s too caught up in his own personal problems, and is painfully forgetful at times. He’s broken a few promises along the way and didn’t visit those first two years just to prove to himself that he could handle being alone, but he didn’t think of how that would affect other people in his life. How Yuri would seem to distance himself from Viktor because of it, or how the fire in his eyes would burn a little brighter in his presence, and not in a good way, when he finally did take the time to visit. Viktor refuses to let that happen again, refuses to drift away.

Yuri stalls for a moment, then shrugs. “Fine.” 

Viktor lets his silence speak for him. He’s not convinced.

Once Yuri realizes he’s not going to say anything, he heaves a deep sigh. “I don’t _know_ ,” he says. Another bored shrug. “High school kinda sucks. Everyone either annoys me by talking too much or they think they’re too fucking cool to say anything to me at all—which just annoys me even _more_ ,” he rants, then makes sure to add, “And all the teachers are assholes.” 

Viktor snorts. “Has mama been worried about you?” he asks. “She was when I was your age.”

Though, Viktor’s high school years were probably stressful for other reasons (or maybe the same reasons, who knows). His teenage years were a blur of his genetics kicking in full throttle and bestowing upon him the absolute joy that is depression, which runs _very_ strong in their family, unfortunately. Combine that with the harrowing sexuality crisis he experienced and dating multiple douchebags who didn’t want to admit that they were gay, either, and were mostly just with him because, “ _well, your hair’s long, so it’s kinda like dating a chick anyway_ ,” and high school was far from pleasant. 

“Don’t even get me started on that,” Yuri cuts through his musings. “She writes a few books on the mental health of ballerinas and thinks she can whip out her therapist voice on me whenever she wants. I hate it.”

Viktor smiles. “She just _cares_ , Yura. You’re her little boy—the baby of the family!” He leans over and wraps an arm around Yuri’s shoulder, their skates almost knocking together. Yuri shouts in annoyance and tries to shove him off, and he eventually does let go, but only to safely swerve and avoid hitting a group of people who can’t figure out how to stop.

“At least you have Otabek,” Viktor says, once they’re side by side again. The shrill laughter of the skaters behind them fills the air as one of them inevitably falls. 

Yuri blows out a long breath, the air leaving his lips like a plume of smoke in the cold. “At least I have Otabek,” he murmurs in agreement.

“You still doing that band thing together?”

That seems to shake Yuri out of his somberness and he’s suddenly right back to his hot-tempered self, expression sharp and fierce. “Yeah. But we haven’t been practicing recently ‘cause we all got in a fight with the singer.” He scoffs, visibly peeved as he digs his skates in a little harder. “Which was fucking bound to happen eventually. He _sucks_.”

Viktor racks his brain to try and remember if this singer’s ever been mentioned before. He vaguely recalls someone: a friend of a friend (who’s not really a friend but was just in one of Yuri’s classes) with an older brother who also happened to be looking for a band at the time. “That Leroy kid?” 

“JJ _fucking_ Leroy,” Yuri snarls. “Yeah, him.” This is the closest Viktor’s ever seen anyone to having smoke come out of their ears. 

Viktor smirks and spins around so he’s skating backwards, then switches to making circles around his brother instead, teasing. “Maybe if you were a little kinder, you could make some friends that you actually _like_ ,” he quips. 

Yuri bites out a curse and pushes past him. Viktor follows. “Are you kidding? Those assholes don’t _deserve_ my kindness,” he spits. “That shit has to be _earned_.”

“Have _I_ not earned your kindness?” Viktor pouts.

Yuri looks at him like that’s the stupidest thing he’s ever heard. “You're my _brother_ ,” he drawls. “I’m supposed to be mean to you—that’s how this whole sibling thing works.”

Coming from Yuri, that’s as close as he’ll get to an “I love you”. Viktor grins and picks up speed.

The satisfying hiss of their skates scratching against the ice fills the gap in their conversation for a while, the two of them tracing over the white lines etched into the ground by skaters before them with ease. Viktor even manages a few simple jumps here and there and only barrels into someone after one of them, which he’s stupidly proud of. 

Yuri opens his mouth a few times, takes a breath like he’s trying to push himself to say something, continually hesitating, but Viktor gives him as much time as he needs. “So…” he eventually says, forcibly casual. “How have… _you_ been?” 

Viktor gasps. “Oh, Yura, you _do_ love me!” he happily exclaims, jumping on him for another hug.

“Fucker—will you— _quit it_! Stop being embarrassing or I’ll take it back!” he growls, darting out of Viktor’s arms at lightning speed and quickly fixing his hair, brushing his fingers through the long, messy strands. “I was just curious if you were still doing that whole dog grooming thing.” Viktor frowns in confusion and Yuri elaborates with a grumpy huff, “I can’t figure out how the hell you grew up surrounded by all these performers and settled on a job like _that_.” 

Viktor hums in understanding, then sighs. Yuri’s right: Viktor did grow up surrounded by performers, and his brother’s in the same boat, now. Their mother is a retired principal dancer who, up until Viktor was a preteen, was still regularly dancing before an audience, pirouetting under bright stage lights almost every week, and their father is a world-renowned fashion designer who creates pieces for A-list celebrities and is in close contact with more superstars than Viktor can count. Those two major factors alongside the endless stream of sedulous, creative performers coming in and out of their home at all times to discuss shows and the like (and the people who stuck around constantly, like Lilia and Yakov), made it seem only natural that Viktor would follow in their footsteps.

But Viktor doesn’t want to get into the details of that right now, especially not in a public place—about how their mother writes books on the mental health of ballerinas for a _reason_ ; how, growing up, he’d overheard one too many late night conversations between Lilia and his mother about what such a strict, rigorous environment can do to you when it eventually takes its toll, often damaging you mentally _and_ physically—and what you have to sacrifice to be the best. 

Viktor had known from a young age that if he put in the effort, with the environment he resided in and the people around him, he’d likely prosper in a world like that. But the thing is: he knows he wouldn’t be able to handle it.

Pushing those thoughts away with a wry smile, he says, “Not everyone wants to be in the public eye, Yura. I like what I do,” then shrugs, nonchalant and twisting his smile into something more genuine as he continues. “I’m sure if your music takes off, you’ll be chased around by little fangirls all day and wish you chose a different career sometimes.”

Yuri grunts in begrudging acknowledgement and skates a bit ahead of him. “Whatever. Lame.” He turns to face him with a scowl. “Don’t expect front row seats to my shows just ‘cause we’re related.”

“Of course not!” Viktor grins. “But I won’t even need to worry about seats when I force you to take me on tour with you.”

Yuri scoffs, but Viktor sees the way his lips curl up slightly before he whips back around. “In your fucking dreams, old man.” And then he veers off to the other side of the rink with the velocity of a speedskater. 

Viktor laughs and chases right after him.

The rest of their morning, and afternoon, even, is spent spewing the same brotherly jabs as they walk around the city. They wind up on a street full of Christmas themed stalls, bombarded with hundreds of items they definitely don’t need but are persuaded into buying anyway—cheap stuffed animals and disgustingly sweet candies—and end up taking a second longer to peruse one stall in particular near the end of their impromptu shopping spree; one that’s decorated top to bottom in magnificent ornaments with a dainty ballerina dangling from a stand near the front. It catches their attention immediately, and the two of them share a look.

She’s beautiful, donned in a glistering, white, tulle dress with dusty pink roses and pearls adhered to the front, her slippers matching in color. Perched elegantly on a sparkling crescent moon, her legs are crossed over the edge, and her silver hair is pinned back in a flawless bun. 

With Anastasia in mind, they purchase it without hesitation. 

They end up in a diner after that and receive the dirty looks that are fairly commonplace when going anywhere in public with Yuri. His brother rolls up the wrapper his straw came in and repeatedly blows spitballs until he nails Viktor right in the eye, Viktor accidentally knocks over an entire cup of water when he reaches over to smack him for it, and Yuri’s phone blasts tinny, garage band-esque rock music at full volume when he goes to show Viktor his band’s newest song and forgets to plug his headphones in. It’s a miracle they don’t get kicked out, truly.

On their way back to the car, Viktor knocks their shoulders together with a smile. “I had a lot of fun today. We should do this again before I leave.”

Yuri shrugs like it’s no big deal and shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his hoodie, head down and hiding his face behind his hair. “... Yeah,” he agrees, voice quiet and clipped, but Viktor hears it all the same. “We should. If you want… You’re a little less annoying this year.”

Viktor’s “ _Awww, Yuraaa!_ ” is so loud, it echoes down the street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first line in my plan for this chapter was literally: 'Sibling Bonding Time!!!'
> 
> I was so excited to write this one :D Writing Yuri and Viktor's relationship has been a lot more fun than I was expecting! This chapter was originally going to be super long and include just the morning of Viktor's birthday, too, but I thought it'd flow better if I made Viktor's birthday it's own separate chapter—so you have that to look forward to next time! Sorry there was no Yuuri in this one btw (*_ _)人 I hope you liked it anyway!
> 
>  **Comments & kudos are greatly appreciated! Comments especially encourage me to keep posting!**
> 
> Come scream at me on my **[YOI tumblr](https://vitya-z.tumblr.com/)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this took so long. It's 16k words!

* * *

  
“You made me a cupcake?!” 

“Oh, _Christ_ —don’t make it _weird_ , fucker!”

“ _Yura_ ,” their parents drone in unison. 

“Yeah, yeah. No F-bombs in the kitchen—here, just take it.” With Viktor close to tears, Yuri shoves a messily frosted, red velvet cupcake into his hands, then crosses his arms with a scowl, cheeks tinged pink. “Happy birthday, old fart. How’s it feel to be one year closer to death?” 

Viktor flashes a radiant smile, his fingers somehow already coated in frosting. “Surprisingly okay!” he says, only to pout slightly as he peels the wrapper back. “I just can’t believe I’m only a couple years from _thirty_ now. Do I look any wiser at least? Should I invest in a pair of reading glasses?” Viktor glances around the room for some moral support and pauses when his eyes land on his father, whose glasses are thick and round, very Waldo chic. He points with a grin. “Like those! Very nice by the way. Are they new?”

Before they can all be ensnared in the trap that is Alexei’s typical, endless spiel on designer brands and the most flattering frames, his mother cuts in with all the command of a drill sergeant. 

“Okay, listen up!” she orders, clapping her hands. Yuri trips over his own feet in surprise and automatically corrects his posture, and Viktor nearly drops his cupcake, fumbling to catch it before it hits the ground. She stands tall in the center of the kitchen, voice projecting like she’s giving an imperative speech to all of New York. 

“Today is my favorite _and_ least favorite day of the year because I feel like my stress levels are going to give me a conniption,” she starts. “I’m already prepping for dinner tonight and I want all of you to stay out of my way, so—Yura, you’re cleaning the living room.” Yuri stomps and groans, and Anastasia turns to point at her husband next. “Lyosha, you’re bringing out the rest of the presents we’ve kept hidden in our room.” Alexei nods, ever the dutiful husband, and the faces of the two brothers are marred with identical frowns, bemused. 

Anastasia elaborates with a sigh, “I know I shouldn’t have to do that now that you’re both older, but I still don’t trust you.” Then Viktor is accosted last. “And Vitya, I’m sending you out later to pick up some groceries for me.” Viktor immediately nods and she once again surveys the room with shrewd eyes. “And no, I’m not making breakfast today. You can make cereal. Got it?” They all nod in response to that, as does she. “Good.”

The boys wait in silence as she takes a deep inhale, breathing in through her nose and out through her mouth until her posture is relaxed. “And happy birthday, Vitya,” she says, like a switch has been flipped, her voice now soft.

With a mouthful of cake and his words muffled, Viktor replies, “Thank you, mama.”

She nods again, to him, to herself, to the rest of the room. “Alright. That’s all.” She waves them off.

Christmas morning in the Nikiforov household is much like a play just hours before showtime. 

The tension is high, and they realize that even though this show has been weeks in the making and, by now, all of their lines should be seared into memory with their costumes perfectly in order, somehow everything still feels like a jumbled mess—at least, that’s how Anastasia probably feels, a haggard high school play director, while Viktor, his father, and his brother are the incompetent students she’s desperately trying to wrangle wherever she needs. 

They always hold off on the main aspects of celebration until evening, and until then, the place is utter pandemonium. Viktor’s never understood why something as trivial as a holiday is made into such a large production, where everything must go as planned with not a Santa figurine out of place, but… well. That’s how his mother’s been for as long as Viktor can remember, and if Anastasia is anything, it’s certainly set in her ways. 

Yuri and Viktor are sitting across from each other while their mother pulls a plethora of pots and pans from some black hole of a cupboard, waiting to be sent off to their designated chores. Yuri decided to let Alexei finish setting out the presents first, an obvious excuse to put off cleaning the living room for as long as possible, and Viktor is waiting for his mother to remember what she needs from the grocery store the very _second_ that she needs it instead of just having him get it now.

The two siblings sit patiently, playing a rather aggressive game of footsie and eating bowls of awful, sugary cereal that Yuri talked Anastasia into buying instead of her usual ‘organic, cardboard bullcrap’. 

They knock each other’s sock clad feet into the legs of the dining table, jostling the vase in the center and wincing when their ankles and shins get hit particularly hard, but neither wants to be the first to give up. They take a small break and let Viktor find his balance again when Yuri kicks the sole of his foot directly into Viktor’s knee and almost sends him flying backward in his seat. 

“You got frosting on your face,” Yuri says, deadpan, his mouth full of colorful loops during their brief intermission. 

“Where?” 

“Right”—Yuri reaches forward and smacks him across the face—“there.”

Viktor flinches so hard he almost upends his bowl. “ _Ow!_ You’re such a—”

“ _Boys_.”

They both wince and sink low in their seats at the sound of their mother’s voice, chastised. “Sorry, mama,” the siblings reply.

Yuri glares at him from across the table. “See what you did?” he hisses through his teeth. “That was your fault.”

Viktor kicks him again.

“When are Yakov and Lilia coming, darling?” Alexei asks, his entire upper body hidden under the tree. He’s nothing but a pair of shiny, black shoes and candy cane striped socks as he sets out all of the gifts wrapped in a sickening amount of patterns in an ideal arrangement, evenly dispersed.

They’ve developed a sort of system over the years, his parents. While Alexei’s made a career out of creating some of the most complex, outlandish outfits that Viktor’s ever seen, labors over each piece down to the very stitch, he can’t seem to properly wrap a present for the life of him. So: Anastasia wraps (but Alexei insists on choosing the paper, of course) and his father artfully places them wherever he sees fit.

His mother replies from her station in the kitchen, stray hairs slipping from her ponytail as she vigorously mixes a bowl of something or other, even though the stand mixer is sitting right there on the counter. “I think around five,” she calls back.

At the reminder of guests coming later, Viktor’s stomach erupts in a swarm of butterflies, the kind of sensation that makes you both giddy with elation and terribly nauseous. Bone-tired from yesterday with his brother and steeling himself for today, he’d actually forgotten that they’re being joined by someone special tonight. “When is Yuuri coming?” he asks, not even trying to hide his excitement. 

Yuri gags loudly into his cereal and Viktor turns to him with a frown. “I thought you liked him!” 

“I _do_ like him.” Yuri rolls his eyes like it’s obvious. “I don’t like _you_ when he’s around.”

Viktor's jaw drops in exaggerated offense and he brings a hand up to his chest. “You can’t just hurt my feelings like that, Yura; my heart gets weaker the older I get.”

“He should be coming around the same time,” his mother answers, squashing their argument before it can escalate. She falters in her mixing, then, frowning to herself as she stares ahead, lost in thought. She shakes her head. “Actually, I need to text him and make sure he doesn’t have any allergies. I don’t know why I didn’t do that earlier.”

Viktor’s speaking before his brain has even finished it’s thought, all but jumping out of his seat, cutlery rattling against the table. “I’ll do it! Can I do—can I have his number?” he chokes out, blushing as he trips over his words. He pointedly ignores Yuri’s snickering. 

Is it weird to get somebody’s phone number from another person? It probably is, right? Should he not have asked? He silently ponders that for a moment and then shoves the thought out of his mind, refusing to worry. No, he’s just doing his mother a favor, sending the text out for her so she has one less thing to fret about. Anyway, if Chris were here, he’d likely praise Viktor for being resourceful. Granted, Chris is… _Chris_ , but… whatever. It’s with that thought in mind that he refuses to take his words back. 

But then his mother’s mixing slows to a complete stop, and Viktor second guesses himself. She leans against the counter with the bowl close to her chest and regards him suspiciously, pale blue eyes lined in deep, coal black. Viktor shrinks back in his seat.

“... Why are you looking at me like that?” he asks, nervous.

Anastasia stares him down for a few more seconds before shrugging like nothing’s amiss. “No reason,” she says, breezy and mixing once more. “You can do it if you want; it’ll save me some time. Get your phone out and I’ll give you his number.” 

He doesn’t need to be told twice.

Viktor reaches for his phone at breakneck speed, fumbling with the device once it’s finally out of his coat pocket. It takes multiple attempts to get his password in and he’s eternally grateful that it doesn’t decide to lock itself for an entire day because of it, and with great impatience, he pulls up his contact list and taps the icon to create a new one.

He looks up, then, antsy and eager as he goes to ask for Yuuri’s number, but the feeling rapidly fizzles and dies at the sight of his mother staring at him with that _look_ again. Viktor’s shoulders shoot up to his ears, feeling fiercely defensive all of a sudden. Isn’t this the woman who is constantly pushing him to date someone? Why is she being so _cagey_?

“ _What_?” 

Anastasia doesn’t budge, staring, staring, staring. _Scrutinizing_. “You really like him?” she asks. 

Viktor feels like he’s being interrogated in his own home. He looks down at his phone and taps it once the screen dims, just so he can avoid the way his mother’s eyeballs are trying to peer into his _soul_. “Of course I like him. I thought that was obvious,” he mutters. “He’s adorable.”

Apparently, that wasn’t the answer she wanted, her expression twisting into something frustrated and a tad disappointed, but _what_ she wanted is still completely lost on Viktor. He has to force himself not to throw his hands up in exasperation. 

Quickly moving on, and nearly giving Viktor whiplash with the way she ping-pongs back and forth, his mother’s mood switches yet again with another easy shrug and a flip of her ponytail. She rattles off Yuuri’s number from memory, and Viktor types. 

“Well,” she sighs afterward, turning back to the counter and setting the bowl down with a resounding _thud_ , “tell me what he says when he responds.” 

Viktor is… not really listening anymore, but he hums in assent anyway, trying to decide on a contact name that isn’t too boring but isn’t too _creepy_ , either, for somebody he’s only met once, and then moves on to picking a contact photo. 

After a moment, Yuri chimes in, seemingly just as confused as Viktor. “What’s her problem?” 

Viktor gives another hum, distracted, to show that he doesn’t know, either, but it’s nothing to get worked up about. If his mother has something to say, she’ll say it eventually; she’s always been that way, almost painfully upfront and honest at times, so Viktor’s not worried. 

Clearly losing all interest with a response like that, Yuri grunts in annoyance and stands, walking over to dump his bowl in the sink. Even though he claims to hate speaking to Viktor, not having his full attention very obviously makes Yuri want to rip his own hair out. 

Eyes still glued to his cellphone and gone from the world around him, Viktor starts a new text conversation with near trembling hands, then internally berates himself. It’s not like he’s asking the man to _prom_. “ _Hey, do you have any food allergies? Mama wants to know. We’d hate for you to kick the bucket after taking a bite of casserole at our Christmas party,”_ is certainly not high up on the list of flirty first texts to send to the man you’re interested in. He forces himself to start typing.

> **Viktor:** _Hi, Yuuri! It’s Viktor_ (⌒▽⌒) _! Are you allergic to any foods? Mama is going crazy prepping for dinner tonight and wanted to double check._
> 
> **Viktor:** _Oh, and Merry Christmas!_ 🎄☃️

The messages are read almost instantly, which comes as a surprise. Viktor hopes it’s because he saw who sent it and wanted to reply right away instead of just tapping the notification by accident while scrolling through his phone…

He has a feeling it was probably the latter, though. 

A little speech bubble goes in and out of frame a grand total of five times, anxious tendencies manifesting through the screen without having said a word yet. The small dots within it bounce gently while Viktor’s heart hammers away in his chest.

> **Yuuri 😍🤓💕💗💘:** _Hi, Viktor. Merry Christmas. No, I don’t have any allergies._

And before Viktor even has a chance to lament over that cold reply, Yuuri sends another.

> **Yuuri 😍🤓💕💗💘:** _How did you get my number?_

Viktor’s stuck between wanting to smile and wanting to act on impulse and just slam his head into the table. Getting to talk to Yuuri again is nice, but he should’ve known he wouldn’t be an enthusiastic texter.

Feeling a brief flash of panic in his stomach over that last message, and not wanting to admit that he literally begged his mother to get said phone number, Viktor sends the first thing that comes to mind. 

> **Viktor:** _Mama gave it to me! Her phone broke earlier this morning…_
> 
> **Viktor:** _Dropped it down the garbage disposal on accident_ (／ˍ・、)

Okay, _now_ he’ll slam his head into the table. _That’s_ the only excuse he could come up with? He didn’t even need to give one—Yuuri didn’t _ask_. Viktor closes his eyes and counts to ten, pinching the bridge of his nose. His mother glances over curiously but doesn’t say anything.

Still dying from embarrassment that only he’s aware of, Viktor looks down at his phone again when it buzzes in his hand.

> **Yuuri 😍🤓💕💗💘:** _Oh, makes sense. Sorry to hear that. Well, tell her it was nice of her to ask and that I still plan on being there by 5._
> 
> **Viktor:** _Sure thing! Cya soon, Yuuri_ ヾ(^ω^*) _!_

Yuuri replies with a simple ‘:)’ and Viktor nearly swoons.

He collapses forward with a yearning sigh, watching as his phone clatters out of his hand and onto the table. Pillowed in his arms, he turns his head to face his mother, and like he’s just received the most groundbreaking and pivotal information on the planet, he says, “He doesn’t have any allergies.”

Anastasia snorts, now moving her mysterious mixture into the fridge. “Good, so I don’t need to change anything last minute.” She wipes her hands off on the apron tied around her waist and straightens her shoulders. Without her even saying anything, Viktor already knows she’s going down some detailed checklist in her mind. “I need you to go to the store,” she says after a pause.

Viktor then scrambles for his phone, because his mother waits for no one, opens his notes, and writes down the name of some spice he’s never even heard of and red napkins (“ _Red_ , Vitya—they have to be red!”).

On his way out of the house, and over the noise of Yuri finally vacuuming the living room (somehow making it look like the most grueling task he could’ve been given), Viktor catches the words “ _presents_ ” and “ _for Yuuri_ ” from his father. Rivaling any megaphone and surely being heard all the way down the street, Viktor throws the door back open and yells, “You better say those are from _all of us_!” 

And then he closes the door and moseys down to his car before Yuri can yell at _him_ for being obnoxious.  
  


* * *

  
Arriving at his destination proves what he already knew to be true: grocery stores on holidays are the seventh circle of hell—and Viktor’s surprised he hasn’t gotten decked by an angry grandma searching for the last ham in the thirty minutes that he’s been here.

Yes, you read that correctly: _thirty_ minutes. 

Among the clueless husbands scuttling around the store and searching for ingredients they know nothing about, their phones tucked against their shoulders with their spouses on the other end, and entitled customers yelling in the faces of helpless retail workers, Viktor had to search through almost every aisle, high and low, for a spice container that is smaller than the palm of his hand. He’s already seeing spots against the fluorescent lights, a sure sign that a migraine is on the way.

There are families arguing, passive aggressive seniors trying to get their way, and children running away from said arguing families, all surrounded in shimmering tinsel and joyous Christmas love songs. Viktor is really feeling the holiday spirit. (He just wants to go home and cuddle his dog.)

Christmas and his own birthday have never been things he’s felt the need to make a big deal out of. Because while being around family and spreading love and joy seems to be what people _tell_ you to focus on during the holidays, there’s still a major emphasis on grandeur and gift-giving. And why, Viktor’s over the top personality asks, is a day for gift giving necessary when you can spoil everyone in your life, including yourself, with things they definitely don’t need throughout the entire year? 

Example number one: Viktor’s bright pink Cadillac that he bought two summers ago and loves like a child (and the seven expensive lamps in his living room purchased solely for better selfie lighting (but turned out to be great for reading, too), and his ugly (but fancy) marble bust, and his… you get the idea.)

It all just seems wholly unnecessary. Especially since the only people his mother has to impress during her annual celebrations are him, his brother, and his father, as well as Yakov and Lilia—who, Viktor’s sure of it, would stop by even if his mother burnt dinner to a crisp and Potya destroyed every decoration in the house. Though, Lilia does seem to enjoy the resplendence of it all. 

He may not understand it but he can appreciate it if he tries, sort of. He’ll certainly always think fondly of his mother for feeling the need to go all out whenever she can.

He sighs to himself and rubs at his temples, spice in hand and heading for the self-checkout line, boots squeaking against the floor. Then, he catches sight of something out of the corner of his eye and stops short. He almost trips over a demolished candy display and an irritated teenager runs into his back, but he pays that no mind and turns on his heel, rushing back to the aisle he just passed. 

And just like that, hell transforms to heaven. The ceiling opens up to clear, blue skies and fluffy clouds, a choir of angels singing from above. Because standing at the end of the aisle, eyebrows furrowed in concentration as he studies the label wrapped around a wine bottle, is Yuuri. 

At least, he’s pretty sure it is. He’s certainly dressed differently than the last time Viktor saw him. 

Without giving himself time to ruminate, Viktor waltzes over, smile wide and waving happily. “Yuuri!” he calls.

Viktor cringes as the tutor jumps in surprise, the wine bottle teetering precariously between his hands. Yuuri manages to catch it right before it falls, though it does look like his life just flashed before his eyes. He turns to face him then, gripping the neck of the bottle and pushing his glasses up, wide-eyed. “V-Viktor! I… Hi.”

Viktor waits to see if the man has anything else to add, but Yuuri remains silent, staring up at him. Viktor’s smile grows a little wider in amusement. 

“Hi,” he parrots, quickly glancing down, now that he’s up close, to take in Yuuri’s outfit. Gone is the ‘hot teacher’ look from before, and it’s been replaced with ‘casual college student’ instead, which Viktor finds just as nice. He’s bundled up in a thick, brown coat pulled all the way up to his chin like a wearable blanket, and his hair is silky and unstyled, falling in his eyes and covered in a black beanie with… cat ears? A rush of affection punches Viktor in the gut so hard he could cry. 

“You look nice,” he adds, because he can’t _not_. 

Yuuri’s free hand flies up to his face, settling on his cheek like his instinct when being complimented is to hide. He turns pink in seconds. “You don’t have to lie; I know I look a little rough right now…" he mumbles. “I wasn’t expecting to see anyone I knew while I was out.”

“ _A little rough_ ” must translate to “ _god among men_ ” in a language Viktor isn’t aware of. 

But he gets it. Viktor’s never dolled up when he runs into someone he knows or wants to impress, either—it’s always the morning after a night out with Chris, making a quick run to the drugstore for some Advil while he’s still covered in glitter and lipstick that’s two shades too warm to be his own (because Viktor looks great in pink, but he wouldn’t be caught dead in coral).

“How dare you accuse me of being a liar.” He pouts. “That coat looks very… cozy. I like it.” It looks more like a potato sack, but he pulls it off. Viktor nods to the bottle in Yuuri’s hand. “Who’s the wine for?”

Yuuri looks down like he forgot he was even holding it. “Oh! Right. This is for later tonight. Dinner parties aren’t really my thing, so I didn’t know if I was supposed to bring something or…” He shrugs, awkwardly. “But people usually do, right? So I thought I probably should—my roommate told me I should.”

Viktor smiles over the tutor’s bumbling, though it’s short lived as he finally processes that first part. “If they’re not your thing, why’d you accept the invite?” 

Did Yuuri only agree to come out of politeness? because of his parents being too pushy? That’s the last thing Viktor wants: for Yuuri to show up and feel nothing but uncomfortable the entire night.

The question seems to catch him off guard, and Yuuri’s face goes from rosy pink to fire engine red. He clears his throat, glancing around the aisle like he’ll find his answer hidden somewhere near the chardonnay. “I’m, uh—not from here. I only moved to America for school, so my family’s back home in Japan, and I… don’t really have anyone besides my roommate to celebrate with,” he says. “Your family’s sorta taken me in even though I was only hired in August… I don’t know.” He smiles, sheepish. “They’re nice. I thought I should go.” 

Viktor almost rolls his eyes thinking about his parents, and snorts inwardly. Of course, they finally find a tutor that pairs well with their son, and instead of paying him a little extra, they force him into the family. 

“So they’ve claimed you as one of their own,” he chuckles. “I hope they haven’t been too overwhelming.”

“No, not at all!” Yuuri’s quick to reassure him, shaking his head. Viktor quirks an eyebrow in disbelief. “I mean… they’re a little intense, but it’s good, I promise. It’s a good thing.” And—well. With a smile like that, Viktor’s helpless to do anything but believe him. 

Their conversation comes to a brief pause, then, as they both shuffle out of the way to let a large family pass through, one cart coming after another. The two of them step aside so they’re nearly flush with the wine bottles and huddle a step closer to each other. Viktor hopes the heat he can feel crawling up his neck isn’t too obvious, and that he can just pass it off as it being _way_ too warm in here.

Before Viktor can pick up where they left off, Yuuri is suddenly gripping the bottle close to his chest, gasping. “And happy birthday!” he blurts out, oozing sincerity. “I’m sorry—I forgot to say that earlier when you texted me.”

Viktor startles at the swift change in topic… and then he laughs, the sound bubbling past his lips before he can stop it—partly because Yuuri’s acting like him forgetting to wish somebody a happy birthday is equivalent to that of a war crime, and because it’s _very_ hard to believe this is the same man responsible for the dull texts he received just an hour ago.

“That’s alright,” he replies, grinning. “Thank you! Yura even made me a cupcake this morning; can you believe it?”

To his surprise, Yuuri nods almost immediately. “I can, actually,” he says with a wry smile. “He loves you a lot; he’s just a teenager. Give him a few more years and I’m sure he’ll be more open about it.”

Viktor beams. “I’ll take your word for it.” 

Sadly, he doesn’t get the chance to drag their interaction out for much longer. Their bubble of peace, made up of cheap alcohol and racks of gossip magazines, inevitably pops as another group of people come storming down the aisle. A distracted soccer mom knocks into Yuuri’s shoulder along the way and Yuuri trips forward with a squeak, still clinging to the bottle in his hand, and stumbles directly into Viktor’s chest.

The cacophony of voices around them suddenly turns to bees in Viktor’s ears, buzzing, buzzing, buzzing—and rather than the light fluttering of butterfly wings that he felt earlier, a raging stampede of every animal alive starts up right in the pit of Viktor’s stomach. It all happens in a matter of seconds, and he just barely represses a squeak of his own as he quickly reaches out to steady the other man, hands resting on Yuuri’s shoulders, gripping the fabric of his coat and instinctively pulling him closer so he doesn’t face-plant. 

Viktor’s skin is white as snow, and he has no doubt that the heat he can feel catapulting up to his face, now, is making him beet red. 

There’s an awkward—( _but nice? Holding Yuuri like this is nice_ )—moment of limbo where Yuuri stiffens but doesn’t back away, and Viktor doesn’t know if that’s a sign to let go or if the tutor is going to fall flat on his ass if he does. 

The crowd eventually recedes, grabbing their things and rushing around the corner to the next aisle, and the sudden quieting has Yuuri jolting away from him like he’s been electrocuted. Viktor can’t help but feel a tad disappointed, which is… dumb? Definitely dumb. He would’ve had to let go eventually; clinging to a man he just met in the middle of a grocery store is definitely a little weird, even for him. 

Viktor lets his hands fall from Yuuri’s arms as he finally steps away, blushing furiously as well. The two of them probably look ridiculous together. 

Embarrassed, Yuuri nervously scratches the back of his neck. “I-I should get going,” he stutters. “I still have to wrap a couple of Yurio’s presents.”

And that… is the sweetest thing ever. Yuuri bought a present (no, _presents_ —multiple) for the teenager who spits and hisses at him for spewing algebraic equations, a subject the tutor’s even admitted to not liking, either. Viktor’s torn between falling to the ground, melting into a puddle of fond, lovey-dovey goo, and kicking himself as hard as he can because: presents. _Shit_.

So along with his parents getting something for Yuuri, Yuuri even got presents for Viktor’s little brother—and now Viktor’s going to be the odd asshole out later tonight when he doesn’t have anything to give the tutor as well, a token of his appreciation. Granted, Viktor wasn’t even aware of the other’s existence until a couple of days ago, but… _still_. He has to get something for him. Absolutely. (And he’s not just going to grab a generic Christmas card on his way out. Yuuri deserves much, much more than that.) 

“Don’t worry about making the wrapping perfect,” Viktor says, masking his inner turmoil. “He’s going to rip it to shreds anyway.”

Yuuri laughs, airy and bright. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He starts to back away, then, bringing his hand up in a small wave. “See you later tonight.”

“Tonight,” Viktor echoes with a nod, and then Yuuri’s turning away and shuffling down the aisle, leaving him smitten and light as a feather. 

Viktor easily pushes his way through the bustling store after that, finally making his way to the self-checkout line and still feeling like he’s walking on clouds by the time he’s done. And once that’s over with, he hightails it to the nearest designer store, trying his absolute hardest not to cause a wreck and crying at his GPS like it can hear him when the monotone voice makes him take a wrong turn.

It took him a second to decide on a decent gift, sitting in the grocery store parking lot before he left and tapping against the steering wheel while he was lost in thought. Candles and lotions seem too impersonal, but he doesn’t know Yuuri well enough to purchase something with a lot of meaning; he doesn’t know the other man's preferred clothing size, either, and Viktor still can’t quite grasp what Yuuri’s style even is or what he’d appreciate getting—but then he thinks back on what Yuuri was wearing today, how, even though he’s been in the city for years, he was bundled up against the snowy weather like it was still a shock to him. And the only thing he seemed to be missing was a scarf. 

So that’s how Viktor ends up at a Prada store, dodging every employee for as long as he possibly can, because even though Viktor loves all things luxury, people who feel the same tend to get on his nerves. And after just a few minutes of searching, he finds exactly what he’s looking for… 

He winds up paying over $600 on a navy blue, cashmere scarf that feels softer than rose petals against his skin, along with a nice bottle of cologne (because even if the scarf alone is over half a thousand bucks, it’s still _just_ a scarf, right?).

It’s a lot of money—way too much money, he knows, especially for somebody he’s only just met, but he honestly couldn’t care less about that. Being a pet groomer in West Hollywood rakes in a surprising amount, so spending that much isn’t a huge deal (even if it does still make his wallet cry, just a little bit).

And besides, everybody deserves at least one designer item in their collection! …In Viktor’s opinion anyway.

He leaves feeling satisfied, like a weight has been lifted off his shoulders since he found something on such short notice; though, the feeling is eventually intercepted by a niggling in the back of Viktor’s mind that he’s forgetting something as he smoothly merges back into traffic, something he was told earlier that managed to slip his mind. Viktor shakes his head, thinking nothing of it during his drive back home and practically thrumming with excitement over getting to give Yuuri his present later, even if it is something small. 

It isn’t until he’s barely set a foot inside that the reminder yells at him from the kitchen. “Did you get the napkins, Vitya? _Red_?” his mother asks.

_Oh_. 

Viktor smacks his palm against his forehead, turns around, and heads right back out.  
  


* * *

  
Red napkins were a good call, actually, even if he did have to brave the grocery store a second time just to get them; they made his mother happy and a little less vexed once he came back with a pack in hand, for one, and the colors pair well with the rest of the decorations around the house. Going back also served as a good distraction, because once Viktor came home that first time, he’d already felt a foreign sensation simmering low in his belly. Something like nervousness. 

That feeling alone set off a chain reaction all by itself, leading to more nervousness, and then confusion, and then _stress_ , and then and then and then—because Viktor doesn’t get _nervous_. A year ago, when he was still dating around and taking Chris up on almost every offer to go out clubbing just to avoid spending another night alone, charming was his default. He mingled, he teased, he flirted.

Sure, it never meant anything, and sometimes he didn’t feel much for the other person at all—it was simply a pass time—but even with all of that privately swirling around in his head, he always kept that air of debonair locked in place, his mask firmly affixed… and it was never because he was secretly _nervous_.

He hadn’t even felt this way when he first met Yuuri the other day. Flustered, sure, unprepared, but not _this_. Knowing that Yuuri was going to be spending the entire evening with Viktor and his family, sitting across the table from him, taking part in their domestic Christmas traditions, was… a lot. Frankly, Viktor feels a little disoriented, and now he’s running around the house like a chicken with its head cut off.

Visualizing every scenario where something goes horribly wrong tonight, Viktor sweeps the dining area once, twice, and almost three times, before forcing himself to put the broom away halfway through, all while trying _very_ hard not to sweat through his shirt—but he’s pretty sure he’s failing on that front, which is deeply upsetting because this shirt was _expensive_ and it’s _white_ , too. In the midst of that whole mess, he also makes sure to steer clear of the kitchen completely. Getting in the way right now is a one-way ticket to getting throat punched by his own mother, and he knows it.

He changes his shirt three times after that (because he wants to make a good impression, and giant pit stains are _not_ the best way to do that, in his opinion), his pants twice, and his shoes twice, too, until he finally just kicks them off and puts on the pair he was wearing originally. He even clips a red bow onto Makka’s ear, since she’s his loyal sidekick and _absolutely_ deserves to look just as nice as everybody else here tonight.

By the time Viktor’s slight mental breakdown begins to peter out, they only have about half an hour before everyone starts to arrive—he can hear his mother’s intense cooking routine steadily slowing, his father is lounging on the couch, and Yuri is… somewhere, mentally preparing for a night surrounded by people, probably—and Viktor decides to brush his teeth for good measure and to style his hair while he’s at it. He plucks the supplies necessary out of his own bathroom and makes his way to the one in the hallway instead (‘Yuri’s bathroom’), since the lighting in there is much, much better. Which Viktor finds criminal, actually. _He_ deserves good lighting; Yuri doesn’t appreciate it enough.

Except he’s forced to a stop when Yuri walks up to the door just as he does. They both step one foot in at the same time, then out, then back in, then come to standstill with Yuri frowning so hard Viktor’s sure his face is going to get stuck that way.

“Get lost! You have your own bathroom!” 

“I just need to do my hair and brush my teeth!” Viktor whines. He even puts on his biggest pout, but that’s never been very effective on his brother. 

Yuri just rolls his eyes, arms crossed and leaning against the doorframe. “Me too, fucker. Why do you think I’m here?”

Viktor pauses for a moment, lips pursed while he thinks of a solution. He grins. “What if we just share the sink?” 

“That’s fucking _nasty_.” His voice is nothing short of disgusted, and his expression looks much the same. “I don’t wanna brush my teeth near you with your old man gum disease.” 

Viktor gasps in horror. He lets Yuri get away with saying a lot, but he draws the line at gum disease; that’s just gross. “I don’t have gum disease!” he wails. He slouches where he stands, then, knees bent as he pleads. “And the lighting is better in here, and my bathroom’s so far away, and I already have my toothbrush out, _Yuraaa_!”

Yuri yells wordlessly over Viktor just to drown out the noise until his whining finally comes to a stop. “I take it back,” he snarls, “you’re not an old man. You’re fucking five.”

“I’m just spirited!” 

“Annoying,” Yuri corrects.

“Lively.”

“The reason mama went grey so fast.”

Viktor whips around with such force that he almost stumbles, just to make sure they’re not being overheard. “Don’t let her hear you say that,” he warns in a whisper.

Yuri scoffs, but he stands on his toes and glances over Viktor’s shoulder just to double check anyway.

Another staring contest ensues as they both try to figure out how to fix this. Because even though Viktor could end it right now by just walking away into the next room, neither of them are the type to back down.

It ends with both of them rushing into the bathroom at the same time, roughly shouldering each other along the way. 

Yuri brushes through his long, golden hair with enough force to make Viktor cringe as the brush jerks through unruly knots, and Viktor goes with a much softer approach, running through the hair he’s toned silver since high school with a comb and spraying enough texturing product to make Yuri nearly cough up a lung. 

Brushing their teeth side by side doesn’t go over very well, either. It’s a blur of elbows digging into sides, Viktor purposefully stepping on Yuri’s toes, and hip checking each other until Viktor falls directly into the bathtub and takes the curtain down with him.

Yuri’s caught between laughing and yelling the entire time and almost chokes on his toothpaste while Viktor scrambles to get out, staring down at the destroyed shower curtain, rings and all, in shock.

Viktor easily waves it off, running a hand through his hair and straightening his clothes. “We’ll deal with it later, it’s fine,” he mumbles around his toothbrush. “It’s—it’s fine.” 

Yuri doesn’t look convinced but he’s not stupid enough to run downstairs and tattle because _he’d_ just get in trouble, too. They leave it be.

The bathroom fiasco ends with one last look in the mirror for them both. After Viktor’s earlier fashion crisis he finally decided on a black button-up with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows and black slacks to match, and tied it all together with a sleek, gunmetal grey vest over the top and his priciest watch, his hair falling gently over one eye.

Yuri, on the other hand, has his hair tied up in a high ponytail, strands pulled out near the front to frame his face. He opted for simple black slacks, too, though he decided against a vest for himself and went with a black tie over a deep red button-up. 

Viktor smooths out his vest and straightens his collar. “You look like a valet boy,” he quips.

“Oh, _fuck you_.”

Then, they’re called downstairs to set the table.

Viktor’s surprised he doesn’t end up dropping anything or shattering his mother’s dishes, precious family heirlooms that are only set out on occasion, with the way thinking about Yuuri is starting to have physical side effects; though, it’s probably because he knows his mother would wring his neck if he did, so he subconsciously makes sure that he doesn’t. But his palms are starting to shake and sweat, now, and all the blood in his body seems to ebb and flow like a deadly current, noisy in his ears.

Thankfully, nobody seems to notice at the moment, with the way he’s cheerfully carrying out conversation with his family, but he knows it won’t last long once he’s left to his own devices again. His mother is finally settling into her more Infectious Christmas Spirit that they all prefer over her Murderous Christmas Rage; his father is going on and on about how he hopes Yakov doesn’t show up in that god awful hat again; and Yuri just grunts in acknowledgment whenever he’s addressed, slamming cutlery onto the table like the hunk of wood offended him personally.

The doorbell rings about ten minutes later, and Viktor feels his heart jump to his throat. His mother scurries off to answer it, practically glowing with excitement over seeing friends she meets up with all the time, and Viktor peers around the corner in eager anticipation. There stands Yakov and Lilia in all their stoic Russian glory, though they both seem to soften in the face of his mother’s giddiness. 

Viktor can’t help but deflate when he realizes a certain Japanese man is noticeably missing from the doorstep and that the two of them are standing alone, his nerves being replaced with slight disappointment. That thought alone is immediately followed by guilt, so he pushes it down and strides out of the kitchen to greet their guests. 

“Vitya, happy birthday,” Lilia says with a nod, her voice as clipped as always. It seems to be her default if she’s not yelling at somebody. It’s not that she’s mean, because she’s really not, once you get to know her; her personality is just as severe as her looks. All sharp lines and porcelain perfection, rigid and dignified like a true ballerina—but over the years Viktor’s gotten to see the softer side of her. “Where would you like me to put these?” she asks, a few neatly wrapped boxes in hand with his name scrawled along the tags.

“I’ll take them, thank you.” Viktor smiles kindly, reaching out when Lilia hands them over. “You really didn’t have to get me anything.”

Lilia sniffs with an eyebrow raised. She looks over at Anastasia like she can’t believe what she’s hearing. “Nonsense,” she replies. “It’s the day you were brought into this world; we must celebrate—that’s how it goes.” 

He should've expected an answer like that.

“Right, well,” Viktor laughs with a shake of his head, then takes a step back from the door. “Come on in. I’ll just set these under the tree.”

The couple follow him into the house with the ease that comes from having been somewhere a thousand times before. Viktor sees his father put his face in his hands beside the tree when he notices that yes, Yakov _is_ wearing that hat again, and he bites back a snort. 

“I have some other things in my bag as well,” Lilia adds, already walking over to kneel by the tree before Viktor can take the rest from her. “I can set those out myself.”

Viktor nods and leaves her be, settling on the couch while he waits for last minute dinner preparations to be made and for the star of the evening (in Viktor’s mind, anyway) to finally show up. He wonders if Yuuri’s had the pleasure of meeting Lilia yet, how he’ll fare in the face of her intensity. 

“Festive as always, Nastya,” Yakov finally speaks up, gruff and scratchy with his arms permanently crossed as he takes in the room.

Anastasia laughs, merry and teasing. “You can pretend to hate it all you want, Yakov, but we’ll never forget the time you got drunk at a Christmas parade and almost cried because the lights were so pretty.”

Yakov grunts and pretends he doesn’t hear her as he goes to sit in the arm chair across the living room, and Yuri’s ‘ _ha!_ ’ is heard from the kitchen. Viktor even sees Lilia crack a smile.

“Lilia, did you get my email with next month’s practice schedule?” his mother asks, referring to one of the many shows the two of them are involved in that Viktor’s never been able to keep track of.

Lilia gets up from the floor, then, and the dancing duo settle on the other couch beside him, falling into an easy discussion about auditions, practices, and costumes. Viktor roves his eyes over the room as the four friends settle into their usual rhythm: Lilia and his mother continue to bounce ideas off of each other while Yakov and Alexei’s conversation is much more stilted, though still pleasant. He has to bite back another laugh when, through the jumble of conversation, he hears his father: “ _—glad he seems to be getting those jumps down, at least; it must be hard having a student like that… that hat looks_ great _on you by the way._ ” Yakov, to his credit, doesn’t seem to believe a word he says.

Predictably, Viktor starts getting antsy only a few minutes later.

Is Yuuri just running late? What if he suddenly forgot about tonight? What is Viktor going to say when he finally shows up? What if he doesn’t show up at all—what if he got in an _accident_? 

He bounces his leg, cracks his knuckles, and almost starts anxiously touching his face, but manages to stop himself right about then. He shoots up from his seat, everyone too invested in their conversations to notice, and shuffles over to the kitchen where Yuri is avoiding all social interaction by actually helping with dinner for once.

Yuri glances over his shoulder. “Wha’ you wan’?” he asks, his mouth full of potato slices that he definitely isn’t supposed to be eating yet. Viktor watches as he sets some timer on the oven and pulls the tinfoil off a dish already sitting on the counter.

“Do you need any help?”

Yuri glances at him again, then pauses. He looks Viktor up and down before scowling. “No,” he says. “You look like you’re just gonna start breaking shit if I have you do anything.”

Fair enough. He’s still surprised he didn’t earlier.

Viktor nods to himself and leans back against the counter, absently humming and shifting from side to side. So much for finding a distraction. 

He sees Yuri open the oven out of the corner of his eye, peering inside for a second before slamming it closed, and the sound makes Viktor jump. Yuri spins around to face him, agitated by Viktor doing anything that isn’t standing still and being completely silent, apparently. “What are you so _nervous_ for?” he growls. “Stop fidgeting; that shit is contagious, I swear.”

Viktor blows out a long breath and runs a hand through his hair. He’s blurting out words before he can stop himself. “What if Yuuri doesn’t have a good time tonight?” he asks, just on the cusp of whining again. “Or what if I say something stupid?”

Yuri gapes at him for a moment, and then rolls his eyes so hard Viktor’s shocked it doesn’t give him a headache. “Oh, of course. You’re worried about wooing my tutor,” he scoffs. “Also, that’s a fucking dumb thing to worry about, considering that literally everything you say is stupid.”

“Gee, thanks!” Viktor grins. The joys of having a younger sibling. Yuri just shrugs like what he said is common knowledge and reaches over to grab another slice. “Mama’s going to yell at you if she sees you doing that.” Yuri flips him off.

“And—I don’t _know_ ,” Viktor continues, eyebrows furrowed in worry. “I want to make a good impression.” He doesn’t know why he’s telling Yuri any of this; it’s not like he’s going to have any advice other than to knock it off.

There’s a stretch of silence before Yuri speaks, seemingly unsure. “So you’re like… actually into him?”

Viktor frowns. “What— _yes_. Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“You have a bit of a track record, you manwhore.” 

“I haven’t dated anyone in over a year!”

“Yeah but like, before that,” Yuri says with a casual twirl of his hand. “Weren’t you dating five people at once at one point?”

Okay, he does _not_ want to get into the semantics of casual hook-ups with his younger brother. Why did he think bringing this up was a good idea? Viktor splutters. “That wasn’t—we weren’t _dating_. That was just…” He trails off with a harsh sigh. “That’s different. I don’t do that anymore.” He thinks back to this morning and frowns harder. “Is _that_ what mama was being so weird about?”

“Fuck if I know.” Yuri shrugs. “Maybe.”

So his mother’s concerned he’s only trying to date Yuuri for some whirlwind romance while he’s visiting New York, that he’ll leave nothing but a broken heart once he leaves… Great.

“That’s not—”

“ _Yuri_ , don’t even think about it!” their mother yells from the living room, putting her conversation on pause to scold him. Yuri snatches his hand away from the plate like he was about to touch something poisonous. “I’m coming over there in a minute to set everything out! Hands off!”

Yuri crosses his arms like a petulant toddler. “She’s fucking mean sometimes.”

Viktor snorts. “She’s not _mean_ for wanting your grubby little fingers off the food.”

“Whatever. Manwhore.”

True to her word, his mother ushers everybody out of the living room a minute later to take their seats and starts bringing everything out to the table, with Yuri as her unwilling helper. Plates, platters, and bowls are rushed out, piled high with too many types of potatoes, meat, bread, and the biggest salad bowl Viktor’s ever seen in his life, and it seems like his mother is more prepared to feed a hundred; not seven.

Chairs are pulled out and put back to accommodate an odd number and they end up with three seats on each side of the table with one at the head to Viktor’s right. Yuri plops down in the seat to his left with a huff, because setting a table is _so_ labor-intensive, and Lilia sits across from him with much more grace with Yakov and his father by her side. 

(Makkachin is, of course, lying under the table at his feet, waiting for any scraps to fall.)

The chaos of it all is enough to distract Viktor like he’d wanted earlier, and he busies himself with unstacking the plates set in the center of the table and reaching over to place them in front of everyone else. He purposely avoids setting one out for Yuri, just to make him mad, and Yuri waits for a second before looking at Viktor like he wants to spit in his face.

By the time that’s done, his mother is still flitting back and forth between them and the kitchen, bringing out different types of silverware nobody is actually going to use, more decorative napkins, and random little bowls for side dishes. Viktor settles back in his seat with a sigh and has just about cleared his head of all nerve-racking thoughts right as their doorbell rings a second time, a jarring, tinny sound over the Christmas playlist looping on the TV.

Viktor straightens up so quickly he almost kicks Makkachin in the face and immediately leans down to coo apologies at her even though he didn’t actually do anything. With his heart back to pounding at an unhealthy speed, he sits up again and turns to his brother in a panic. Yuri just mouths, “ _Calm down_ ,” clearly exasperated, like that will do anything to help at all. At least everyone else seems oblivious to how he’s feeling, all turned to the sound of the door opening for their late guest.

“Sorry I’m late!” Yuuri’s voice bleeds into the dining area. “My neighbor had a cooking accident and almost set the building on fire and then the traffic was really bad, so I—”

“You’re fine, you’re fine,” his mother insists. “I only set everything out a minute ago— _oh_ , and you brought wine!” she exclaims, cheerful. “I’ll set this out, too, and you can just head over to the table. Your seat is next to Vitya.”

Oh _god_ , so the seat at the head of the table wasn’t even reserved for his mother like he first thought; it’s for Yuuri. He somehow feels both elated and like a massive pit just opened up in his stomach. 

He easily schools his expression into something more casual as his mother hurries back in, wine bottle in hand alongside a small stack of presents under her arm. Those must be for Yuri, he thinks, but there’s a few more than Viktor had expected.

Following in at a much more sedate pace, Yuuri comes into view in the entryway, mumbling polite greetings to everybody already seated before shuffling over. He’s much more cleaned up than he was earlier today, his hair slicked back again and dressed in a classy white button-up and black slacks, but his tie is, unfortunately, a _dreadful_ shade of teal. Viktor can’t help but chance a surreptitious glance over to his father to see if—yep. He looks just as upset about it. 

He smiles to himself. Whatever, Viktor can handle an ugly tie. 

“Glad you made it,” Viktor says, sounding much more at ease than he actually is. “I was worried something might’ve happened.”

Yuuri smiles sheepishly as he settles in his seat, nervously toying with the buttons on his shirt. “Sorry, I’m always on time, usually… Hi, Yurio,” he adds. Yuri grunts with a lazy wave. 

“It’s alright.” Viktor winks. “We’re happy you’re here now.”

His brother looks like he’s going to be sick.

Anastasia comes almost skipping back to the table, her ponytail a mess but she’s glowing brighter than ever. Some of that sternness she carries at all times has fallen away, and his father is staring up at her with his chin resting in his palm, soaking in her childlike happiness and looking utterly smitten.

“Thank you all for coming!” She beams, then claps her hands. “Alright… dig in!” As she sits, she makes sure to tack on a loud and excited, “And merry Christmas!” 

The whole table moves at once, though Yuuri stays back a little, reaching for bowls and plates and passing items wordlessly like they usually do, having grown to learn each other’s likes and dislikes over the years. Viktor helps by taking Yuuri’s plate for him and filling it with things that are out of his reach, and the tutor takes it back with pink cheeks and a grateful smile. 

“So, Yuuri, I’ve heard a lot about you,” Lilia’s voice slices through the room, and Viktor sees him stiffen out of the corner of his eye. Yuri and Viktor share a sorry glance. “You’ve been tutoring Yura since the beginning of the school year, yes?”

Yuuri hums a yes, then reaches for his wine glass and stares into it, like he’s debating whether or not to down the whole thing.

“Are you a teacher?” she asks, her knife scraping against the plate. 

“Uh—no. Not yet anyway,” Yuuri replies. He glances up and immediately hunches his shoulders when he notices all eyes trained on him. Viktor feels kind of bad, but it can’t be helped. It’s not like Lilia is actively _trying_ to be scary. That’s just… how she is. “I’m in the process of getting my bachelor’s so I can teach Japanese here. But I’m pretty good at most subjects, so I thought tutoring would be a good way to make some money on the side… for now.”

Lilia nods once in approval, and Yuuri sags in relief. “Good career choice—impressive. Education is important.” 

“And I can already tell you’re going to be a great teacher with how well you handle this one.” His mother smiles and nods to Yuri, who looks as annoyed as ever. “If you can deal with him just fine, a few more students should be nothing.” 

Yuuri looks… well. He looks like he’s about to spontaneously combust; that’s what he looks like. More than one compliment at a time seems to be a bit much for him. “Mama, you’re both torturing him,” Viktor quickly butts in, amused but sympathetic. 

“What? I’m just letting him know how much we appreciate him and that I’m sure he’ll do _very_ well in his future career.” His mother pouts, indignant, before leveling him with a withering stare. “Would you rather we torture _you_ instead?”

Well, if there’s one thing Viktor’s good at, it’s certainly talking about himself. “Sure!” He grins, just as Yuri coughs out something that sounds suspiciously like, “ _Attention whore_.”

Yuuri smiles at him appreciatively and Viktor gives him one to match as he knocks their feet together under the table. 

Viktor turns his attention back to Lilia (though it’s _very_ hard to do so) as she asks him a question. “Are you still pet-sitting in Hollywood?” 

“Grooming,” he corrects.

“Right.” She nods, dismissive. “You are, then?”

That’s the one thing that’s always bothered him about Lilia, even if she is like family and he loves her like it, too: no matter how clear it is that Viktor’s made up his mind, she will always be endlessly disappointed that he and his brother _both_ don’t want to dance.

“I am,” he replies easily, reaching for his glass and swirling the contents around. “It’s sort of my dream job, honestly. Good money and I get to play with dogs all day.”

“Do you get any cats?” she and Yuri ask at the same time before glaring at each other, like sharing any sort of interest between them is abhorrent.

Viktor huffs a laugh, and Yuuri does, too, slowly looking more at ease as dinner goes on. “We do, but they’re always terrible,” he replies, which isn’t really true, but it's worth saying for the way their faces both scrunch up in disbelief.

“If I wasn’t set on being a teacher, I think that’d be my dream job, too,” Yuuri chimes in, voice meek as his eyes dart back and forth between the three talking.

Viktor beams in response. His body still feels bright with a fire of affection, but it’s no longer as sweltering and all-consuming like before, when it was hard to do anything but focus on his worries and everything that could turn tonight sour. “At least _somebody_ understands,” he says.

“That’d be a nightmare for me,” his father adds, looking like just the thought of it is seriously upsetting, “being covered in hair all day.” He shudders.

“You get used to it.” Viktor shrugs. (And you learn to carry a lint roller with you at all times, even outside of work, because that stuff just travels with you, seriously.)

“And Yura’s still set in his ways about what he wants to do in the future, I assume?” Lilia asks a second later, seemingly set on interrogating everybody tonight. She brings a bite up to her mouth with a steady hand, chews and swallows like even eating is a performance.

“Of course I am,” Yuri grumbles, stabbing at his food. “You can drag me around to as many boring ballet shows as you want; I’m not changing my mind.”

Yuri may be an absolute menace to society and everybody in their home, but Viktor will always admire the way he doesn’t back down to anyone, even when faced with Lilia’s annoying persistence. That was something Viktor struggled with at times, growing up.

Lilia sighs, long-suffering with her fork poised in the air. “It’s just sad to see someone so delicate and beautiful want to pursue something so… rowdy,” she says. “I think you’d go much farther in life if you pursued something other than playing a guitar in smelly venues.”

Yuri looks close to flinging his plate across the table, or just flipping the table entirely. “I play _bass;_ not _guitar_!” he seethes. Someone should just tape a sign with those words on it to his back, at this point. “The _rhythm_ section,” he emphasizes. “The coolest fucking part of a band, especially since we got Beka on drums.”

Yuuri hums, quiet and confused. “Is it the coolest?” he asks. He taps his fork against his lower lip in thought. “I thought bassists were considered the dumb ones in a band…”

Yuri slams his fist against the table. “What do you know?!”

Viktor laughs, loud and unashamed. He’s met with one Yuuri to his right, smiling softly and blushing, and another Yuri to his left, looking like he’s definitely going to try and shave Viktor’s head tonight while he sleeps.

Yuuri mumbles a quiet, “That’s what he _told_ me,” to Viktor, and he smothers another laugh behind his hand.

His father swiftly puts a stop to the argument before dishes start being shattered, but is clearly holding back a laugh of his own. “Alright, alright,” Alexei says. “No fighting on Christmas.”

“Yura, we will support you no matter what you do— _both_ of you,” his mother adds, flitting her eyes to Viktor for a moment. “I mean, you’re still performing; it’s not that different from what a lot of people in this family do. The route you want to take is just a little… louder.” She smiles with a shrug.

“Which is very fitting,” Alexei comments.

“Very,” Yakov agrees, speaking up for the first time since they sat down. They all turn to him in surprise, and he just reaches for the salad bowl. 

Yuri sags in his seat with an irritated grunt, seemingly out of steam by now, and Viktor gives his arm a reassuring squeeze that he doesn’t shrug off. 

The conversation falls to a lull after that, but it’s comfortable, nobody feeling the need to push for something to say. The clinking of dishes and cutlery, and the upbeat Christmas playlist, fill the silence instead. His mother and Lilia engage in mindless dance talk here and there across the table, and Viktor gives Yuuri a few comforting glances when he notices the tutor beginning to fidget in his seat.

Whether pulling Yuuri into a conversation will make him feel better or worse, Viktor’s not sure, but it’s worth a shot anyway. When he notices the other man adjusting his tie for the umpteenth time, Viktor turns to him. “Was moving to America scary at all?” he asks, and Yuuri jumps at being spoken to directly again. Viktor desperately wants to avoid one of the things he was most worried about tonight: Yuuri feeling uncomfortable and out of place the entire time. _Viktor_ may feel more nervous than he’s used to, but that doesn’t mean Yuuri should feel the same, so he pushes on with a smile. “I don’t remember much of our move here but mama always says that it was a pretty big change for her, even if she was excited about it.”

Yuuri takes a deep breath and blows it out slowly. “Ah, yeah, it definitely was,” he replies with a nod. “I’m from a small town, so the transition from that to such a big city was a lot to take in on its own, but the culture shock was pretty intense, too.” He pauses, looking around while he thinks on his next words. “But, uh… I knew I couldn’t stay there forever, so I’m glad I made the move.”

Viktor hums and pushes his plate away now that he’s nearly finished. He mirrors his father earlier, chin in his palm while he focuses all of his attention on Yuuri (with much more fondness than is probably normal for someone who’s only recently passed the threshold between ‘stranger’ and ‘acquaintance’). “What town are you from?”

Now _that_ seemed to be the right question to ask, to weed some of the stress out of the tutor. Yuuri simultaneously perks up in excitement and softens with loving nostalgia, brown eyes sparkling behind blue frames. He doesn’t even seem to notice everyone else listening in. 

“Hasetsu,” he says, with a sort of hometown pride in his voice. “A little seaside town where everyone knows each other. My parents run an onsen—uh, hot springs resort, I guess… it’s really peaceful there. I get homesick a lot.”

“It sounds lovely.” Viktor smiles. “Maybe I should go there someday.”

One of the reasons he left New York in the first place was because he needed to be somewhere with a little more sunshine all year round—since it’s more pleasant in general, but also because it greatly improves his mood. He prefers warm beaches and palm trees to endless grimy, grey buildings, even if the crowdedness is something both cities share. Hasetsu, though… Hasetsu sounds nice.

“Maybe you should,” Yuuri softly agrees.

Yuri gags, noisy and obnoxious. “Stop flirting or I’m literally gonna barf all over my ham.”

Lilia doesn’t look impressed at all, and Alexei places a hand over his face while Anastasia sighs, though it trails off into a laugh. “Please no barf talk at the table,” she drones.

Yuri chews a mouthful of potatoes and sticks his tongue out at Viktor in response, because he’s a disgusting little creature with not a polite bone in his body. Viktor decides right then and there that the next time Makkachin is put outside, he’s forcing his brother out there, too. 

Yuuri looks torn between disgusted and wanting to laugh, which is adorable, honestly, and Yakov just looks desperate to steer the conversation away from anything vomit related… understandably. 

“So how’s high school been treating you so far, Yura?” Yakov asks, and Yuri instantly falls into his usual rant about dumb classes, dumb students, and dumb authority figures. 

Dinner finishes up after another _hour_ of easy conversation, somehow. With all of their plates pushed aside, they shared stories back and forth while time stretched on: Yuuri shared bits and pieces of his quiet childhood in Hasetsu; Yuri complained nonstop about going back to school next month (along with how, where, and when he was going to shove a pencil the next time he sees JJ); and Alexei regaled them with horror stories from working with certain celebrity divas, much to Viktor’s delight. 

After multiple failed attempts trying to weasel said divas’ names out of his father, and him absolutely refusing to share, Viktor declared dinner finished and offered to wash the dishes while everyone else relaxed for a while in the living room. 

It didn’t seem like much of a task when he offered, but then he stacked all of the leftover food and dishes onto the counter and remembered his mother had been prepared to feed their family, along with an entire country, for the next week, at least. 

His hands are already gross and pruney (is this bad for his nails?), and he’s trying as hard as he can to not squeal and squirm every time he touches wet food on somebody’s plate. They have a dishwasher that he’ll use in a second, but he still has to rinse them first, which is proving to be a lot more challenging than he thought it would be. If a dish is too disgusting and hard to clean, is it acceptable to just smash it and throw the pieces away? 

Viktor thinks so.

Just as he’s seriously contemplating slipping a stubborn bowl into the trashcan under the sink, a voice sounds from behind him. 

“Need a hand?”

Viktor startles and the bowl almost falls from his hands completely, but he manages to catch it in time. He looks over his shoulder and his gaze settles on Yuuri, who’s nervously wringing his hands in front of him and shifting on his feet.

The first story of their house has an open floor plan, and Viktor can see where everyone else is still lounging in the living room, talking, laughing, and teasing while Yuri hungrily eyes the growing stack of presents under the tree. The room is large enough that, with the water running, they probably can’t hear Viktor and Yuuri’s conversation.

“No, you’re our guest.” Viktor smiles, reassuring, and nods his head towards his family. “You should be relaxing—mingling.”

Yuuri stares him down like he’s being ridiculous, a wry smile working it’s way onto his face. He walks up to the sink with more surety than Viktor’s seen in him before. “Do I look like the kind of person who enjoys mingling?” He laughs and nudges Viktor to the side with his hip, and Viktor stares, entranced, as the tutor undoes the buttons on his sleeves and rolls them up to expose toned forearms. “Plus, it’s polite to help.”

Viktor blinks, shakes himself, and spills a quiet laugh. He goes back to scrubbing and Yuuri reaches for an extra sponge. “Is it polite to barge in like that?” he quips.

Yuuri shrugs, his actions clearly catching up to him as his face reddens slightly. He ducks his head and carefully rinses a plate, passing it over for Viktor to slide into the dishwasher. “Your mom will appreciate it getting done twice as fast.”

Not that Viktor actually needed convincing, but… “Fair point.” 

The two settle into a pattern of rinsing and passing without any instruction needed, falling into a silence that’s both relaxing yet charged—at least on Viktor’s end. He’s hyper-aware of every moment their sides touch or their fingers brush; the way Yuuri’s movements seem to stutter when it happens, though he does it again anyway (as if doing so on purpose); how if Viktor were to turn right now, he could make out the minute details of Yuuri’s face that he hasn’t had the pleasure of seeing before.

It’s like they’re in their own personal bubble, sectioned off from the rest of the house and everyone else. Viktor feels that same foreign fire start to burn again, the embers spontaneously ramping up in heat as the flames build higher, amplifying the warmth of the water flowing over their hands and the space between them that’s almost nonexistent. 

He clears his throat and plucks a fork from Yuuri’s hands, bending over to drop it in the plastic holder. “So what’s it like going to school to be a teacher?” Viktor asks. “Is it as stressful as I think it is?”

Yuuri huffs a laugh. “Very stressful,” he says, “but it’s fulfilling. I like learning and it’s all necessary to get the job I want, so it’s worth it.” He shrugs. “At least I’m on break now.”

Viktor pauses, fingers wrapped around the delicate stem of a wine glass as Yuuri starts to hand it over, held in midair between them. “You told me you were going to be late for a class the other day,” he notes with a smirk. “Was that just an excuse to get away?”

As oblivious as Viktor may seem at times, he definitely has a knack for reading people and their body language when he really looks. He racks his brain for any moments where Yuuri seemed completely uninterested, or subtly gave any hints that Viktor was being annoying. He comes up blank.

“Ah, I meant _dance_ class,” Yuuri clarifies, bringing a wet hand up to stop his glasses from slipping. “Tutoring doesn’t make a lot of money on its own, so I teach lessons when I can.”

He mentions it so casually, like getting a degree, tutoring insufferable teenagers, and teaching entire dance classes isn’t impressive or something to boast about, like everyone has the talent and time management skills for it. 

“Yuuri!” Viktor gasps, finally taking the glass and beaming. “Look at you, jack of all trades. Is that why mama ended up hiring you?”

Droplets spraying, Yuuri flaps a hand at him like he’s trying to smack the compliment away. “It’s nothing,” he insists. “I’m not that great at any of them.” Noting the frown on Viktor’s face, Yuuri rushes to continue before he can disagree. “But I think that’s _one_ of the reasons she hired me, yes. I mentioned it on my profile and she talked my ear off once I was invited over for an interview—not that that’s a bad thing!” he’s quick to add. “Your mom’s really sweet. She’s just… passionate.”

“Runs in the family, I think.” 

Yuuri laughs and passes another bowl. 

In the quiet that follows, Viktor can practically _hear_ Yuuri thinking. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Yuuri repeatedly take a steeling breath, shoulders rising, but no words actually come; it’s a complete one-eighty from when he forced his way into Viktor’s space just a minute ago. Shy in some ways and pushy in others, he seems too scared to continue the conversation on his own.

Pointedly scrubbing the same spot on a plate over and over again, Viktor pins him with a not-so-subtle glance and an amused smile. Yuuri stiffens once their eyes meet before he wilts in embarrassment, a smile tugging at his own lips. “So did you go to college for anything?” Yuuri finally asks, his voice so quiet Viktor has to strain to hear it over the running water.

When Viktor catches what was said, his expression twists, the question alone bringing up bad memories. “No,” he says, shaking his head. “School was definitely _not_ my thing.”

“What do you mean?”

Viktor hums in thought. “I’m not very book smart,” he replies, thinking back on it. “And I hate being told what to do—I think Yura and I have that in common. I felt like I was being forced to learn things instead of getting to pursue them on my own, and it was _torture_ ,” he groans dramatically, bringing a soapy hand up to his forehead. Yuuri laughs and flicks water at his face, and Viktor promptly does the same with a grin before continuing. “My grades were decent enough but it didn’t really matter, since none of my career options required a college degree or anything.”

High school was a nightmare in a lot of ways, and his classes were only part of the problem. He always got his work done on time, and was never one to half-ass anything, but the lack of creative liberty he was allowed to have over his own projects leading up to those due dates was _terrible_. 

Just like his brother, Viktor was always the worst when it came to math—and even being the bookworm that he was (and still is) literature classes were soul-sucking in their own way: being told what to read, what to write, how to write it, and analyzing everything in ways that seemed totally pointless to him. _Miserable_. College after that wasn’t even something he considered.

Yuuri nods along as he listens, then looks up at him, curious. “What made you decide against dancing, then?” he asks.

Viktor’s open to sharing a lot, but definitely not enough to scare Yuuri away—he’d like to avoid that for as long as possible. Viktor winks and takes the last glass from the tutor’s waiting hand. “Story for another time.”

Thankfully, Yuuri seems fine with that.

Once the dishwasher is running and all leftovers have been put away, the two find themselves making their way back to the living room. Viktor, his brother, and Yuuri end up sitting on the floor near the tree, warmed by the fireplace as they’re all roped into yet another conversation about pointless things that have everyone laughing and Yuri looking like he’s about to pop a blood vessel. Makkachin eventually trots over from her uneventful scavenging in the kitchen and plops down on the floor with the rest of them, draping herself over Yuuri’s leg and resting her head in his lap.

Yuuri coos sweet sounding Japanese under his breath, scratching behind her ears and making quick work of adjusting her bow where it was starting to slip. The scene is so overwhelmingly cute Viktor’s convinced he’s going to die right there under the Christmas tree. A handsome man loving Makkachin as much as Viktor does is apparently all it takes for him to suddenly develop severe heart palpitations. 

Yuri, unsurprisingly, gets sick of their chit-chat about five minutes in. “God, can we open shit already?” he asks, sitting up on his knees and shuffling over to the tree. For whatever reason, he starts poking all of the boxes closest to him. 

“ _Yurochka_ ,” his father sings. Cheeks rosy and snuggled up close to Anastasia, he has one arm swinging in the air, a full glass of wine in hand, and the other wrapped around his mother’s shoulder. “There’s more to Christmas than gift giving! It’s about spending time with friends and family—appreciating your loved ones.”

“It’s literally _not_ ,” Yuri grumbles in reply. He picks up a large box with his name on it and shakes it vigorously before setting it back down. “I’ll appreciate you guys tomorrow.”

Alexei hums through a massive gulp, then points a finger. “That being said, hand me that present right there. I want to open it.”

“That’s not fair!”

“Actually, pass out all of them while you’re at it.”

Yuri groans and starts aggressively ripping presents out from under the tree, quickly checking names before haphazardly sliding them across the floor. “You guys suck.”

Viktor leans back on his elbows with a contented sigh and a sarcastic lilt to his voice. “Something about being back home is so _peaceful_ ,” he says to the room and does a full body flinch when Yuri throws a present into his lap as hard as he can.

Everybody’s gift stacks steadily grow bigger and bigger, and Viktor watches as Yuri pulls out multiple from under the tree and pushes them over to Yuuri. 

“Katsudon, here,” he says, and the tutor looks up from petting Makkachin in surprise at the carefully wrapped gifts now sitting in front of him. 

“Katsudon?” Viktor frowns in confusion.

Yuuri gets a pained look on his face. “Uh, long story—” 

“If I get a stupid nickname, so does he,” Yuri interrupts, and that’s about all the explanation Viktor’s going to get for now. 

Yuuri isn’t hung up on it for long, though, too distracted by his own presents like they’re something alien to him. “I didn’t even know you guys got me anything,” he mumbles and turns to Viktor’s parents, taken aback. “You shouldn’t have…”

“You’re part of the family.” Anastasia smiles kindly. “We weren’t going to leave you out.”

Nonplussed, Yuuri bites his lower lip, his eyes darting back and forth between everyone in the room. “Well… thank you.”

“You don’t even know what you got yet,” she teases, leaning down to grab a present of her own. “Come on, let's all open ours at the same time.” 

Viktor and Yuri, being the greedy and materialistic siblings that they are, delve into their separate piles as soon as they’re allowed, the room erupting in a flurry of wrapping and tissue paper. Yuuri is much neater about it, which Anastasia clearly appreciates, slowly picking at every piece of tape so he doesn’t rip anything.

Viktor looks on excitedly as everyone opens theirs, feeling particularly proud of himself, and his brother, when his mother gets a little misty eyed over the ornament they bought yesterday. 

Yuri gets a brand new amp that probably weighs more than he does (and boy, Viktor can’t _wait_ to have his eardrums blown out later with that one), along with some more posters and bass picks, a new sturdy, neon yellow strap, a songbook full of bass tabs from his favorite band, and an abundance of clothes that he’s inevitably going to tear up with his father’s treasured fabric scissors when he has the time.

Yuuri’s gifts, however, have been much more simple and practical so far, and it’s obvious that’s what the tutor likes most. With a grateful smile that never goes away, Yuuri unwraps a plethora of brightly colored shirts, a fancy faux leather book bag, and pauses for a moment when he gets to a CD mix and a surprisingly heartfelt card from Yuri, looking supremely overwhelmed. (“That mix has a bunch of cool ass songs on it, so you _better_ fucking listen to it—and if you don’t end up liking them, I’m making mama fire you.”) 

Not affected by his threat in the slightest, Yuuri reads over the card again, looking just as emotional as the first time.

Viktor nudges him with his shoulder. “Better get used to stuff like that,” he says, knowingly. “I bet you’re going to be the teacher everyone buys presents for at the end of the year.”

Yuuri scoffs, bashful, and safely tucks the card back into its envelope. “I’ll probably be the teacher everyone secretly makes fun of for being awkward or annoying, if anything.”

“So negative.” Viktor tuts disapprovingly. He nods his head, then, toward the small box Yuuri hasn’t unwrapped yet. “That’s from me by the way.”

“You got me— _oh_.” The tutor looks down at the remaining present and takes it into his hands. He gingerly picks at Viktor’s poor, last minute wrapping job. “What is it?”

“I think you’ll have to open it to find out,” he laughs.

Yuuri unfolds the paper with careful precision, and Viktor has to stop himself from reaching over and tearing it open for him, waiting with bated breath as he takes the top off of the box underneath.

“Is this…” Yuuri blinks and slowly holds up the deep blue fabric. “You got me a _Prada_ scarf?” Viktor hears his father hum in approval from his spot on the couch, and Yuuri glances back down, bug-eyed. “ _And_ cologne?”

Yuri stops flipping through his songbook and looks up in shock. “Holy shit, you crazy bastard—you barely _know_ the guy.”

“ _What_? I thought it’d look nice on him! I had to get it!” Viktor replies, indignant. He swivels toward Yuuri again, pout on full display. “Do you not like it?”

He could take it back. If Yuuri is the type to outright refuse overly expensive gifts and isn’t happy with it, Viktor will absolutely take it back; he’ll even get him that generic card instead if he really wants it, slip a fifty in it like he jokingly planned to before they met.

“No, no, no it’s great!” he insists, cradling it close to his chest. “I just… _wow_. Wasn’t expecting it.” He runs his fingers up and down the impossibly soft cashmere. “Do I want to know how much this cost?”

Viktor smiles and bats his eyelashes in lieu of responding, and Yuuri snorts.

“Okay, yeah, it’s better if you don’t tell me,” he laughs. “I do love it, though, thank you. I’ll wear it all the time.” And then he graces Viktor with an earnest smile that knocks all the air out of his lungs.

Yuri eyes the scarf as it’s placed back in its box, wary. “Better hide that logo when you’re out unless you wanna get mugged anytime soon.”

“Yura,” Viktor sighs, tiredly rubbing a hand over his eyes. Always one to ruin a moment.

“I’ll… remember that,” Yuuri replies, stilted. He leans forward, Makkachin huffing over having her head squished, to gaze past Viktor at the remaining things he’s been too preoccupied to open. “Now my present to you feels kinda lame.”

Viktor straightens, his mouth parting in a surprised ‘o’. “You got me something?” he asks, already excited.

When he looks over, he realizes there’s still one present left. The box is medium sized, half of its wrapping Christmas themed and holly patterned while the other is a white, shimmering birthday paper where it splits down the middle. The small touch has him grinning.

Yuuri hums. “It’s not much. I was just going off what Nastya’s said about you in the past.” He worries his bottom lip between his teeth and shrugs. “Just something to make you smile on your birthday, I guess.”

First of all: hands down one of the sweetest things he’s ever heard in his _life_. Second: how is Yuuri even _real_? 

(He’s not, is the conclusion Viktor comes to. Can’t be.) 

Viktor fights the urge to fling himself at the man, but he knows his expression must be sappy enough from the way Yuri rolls his eyes and mutters an, “ _Oh, god_ ,” before _willingly_ scooting away to tune into whatever his father and Yakov are talking about.

Viktor pulls the box over and, for once, takes his time opening it, and a gasp is pulled from his throat when he pries the top off. 

“Yuuri, these are adorable!” he exclaims. Sitting on top of whatever else is inside is a small see-through bag full of an assortment of dog pins he can already picture clipped to his work apron: corgis, bulldogs, dachshunds, and— “ _Oooh_ , there’s even a little poodle!” 

And to make things even better, underneath the bag are two books, one mystery, the other science fiction, that he hasn’t had the chance to read yet but has definitely seen positive reviews for. His cheeks ache from the perpetual smile on his face, and even though Yuuri was worried about this gift seeming lame in comparison, Viktor can’t help but feel the same about his own, now.

Yuuri anxiously watches on, coming closer to peer over Viktor’s shoulder. “I know it’s not as exciting as Prada, but…”

“It doesn’t have to be hundreds of dollars for me to like it,” Viktor replies sincerely, scanning over the covers of each book. “Extravagance is in my blood, clearly, so that’s what I went with.” He looks behind him, then, Yuuri pulling back so they’re not nose to nose. “But I don’t know what you’re talking about; this is just as exciting.” He grins, overjoyed. “Thank you, Yuuri.” 

After a moment's hesitation, Yuuri bows slightly where he sits, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. “You’re welcome.” 

It hits Viktor right then and there, while the two of them are sitting only a hair’s breadth apart and Yuuri is staring up at him with those mesmerizing Bambi eyes, that he absolutely has to make a move soon—maybe even tonight—and that there’s no way in hell he’s leaving a broken heart behind once he leaves. 

( _Once he leaves_ ; he really doesn’t want to think about that.) 

He’s not stringing anyone along this time, no matter what his family may think, now that he realizes he hasn’t felt a pull like this toward anyone in his twenty-eight years alive.

The perfect moment comes when he offers to see Yuuri out another hour later. 

Yuri slinked off to his bedroom a while ago with his new treasure trove dragging behind him, the other adults in the room are discussing things Viktor still doesn’t care about _or_ understand (even though he himself is literally an adult, too), and Yuuri is near dead on his feet, sleepy and drained from the surge of endless interaction. 

Viktor shuts the door behind them so they have a bit of privacy, effectively closing out the warm glow of the house and bathing Yuuri in the twinkling lights of the neighborhood instead. 

It kind of feels like the ending to a first date, he notes, even though that’s definitely not what this is and the date Viktor’s hoping for hasn’t even happened yet—or like saying goodbye to your crush after a memorable night at a school dance: that special combination of awkward and electrifying that you never want to end.

“It was nice having you over,” Viktor says, his words leaving him in a cloud of condensation. “Not sure if you’ve been around my family for that long before, so… sorry?” He chuckles with a wince. “Maybe I should’ve said that in advance.”

“No, no, I had a lot of fun,” Yuuri kindly reassures him, then makes a face, perturbed. “But Lilia was kind of…”

“Terrifying?” Viktor supplies, and the other laughs softly in agreement. “Just making eye contact with her will put the fear of God in anyone; that’s how she’s always been.” Lilia can seem cold and brutal at times, but Viktor’s seen her cradle Potya and sing to her like a baby on more than one occasion, so her intimidation tactics fall flat more often than not, now.

“At least I survived it,” Yuuri replies, looking genuinely relieved, and Viktor smiles.

“That, you did.” 

A burst of icy wind blows down the street, and a delaying silence follows, both of them knowing they have to part ways eventually but neither making a move to leave. 

Yuuri is, yet again, swaddled in that adorable potato sack of a coat. His hands are balled up and hidden inside his thick sleeves, and Viktor feels a flash of envy as goosebumps prickle along his arms, having come outside without a jacket of his own. He really only thought he’d be out here for a minute. 

The silence stretches, heavy and tense with uncertainty. The only sounds to be heard are the muted chatter of families celebrating behind closed doors and Viktor and Yuuri’s shoes scuffing against the damp concrete. 

It’s snowing a lot more than it has in previous years, he notices, piles of it covering the sidewalks and sprinkling down the streets, steadily building. Viktor watches, mustering up the courage to say something, as tiny white snowflakes fall from the sky, piercing through the dim street like additional pinpricks of light.

Heart pounding, he takes a deep breath. “Yuuri—”

“Viktor—”

Caught off guard, they both pause, blinking at each other. And then they burst into a fit of nervous giggles.

“What were you going to say?” Viktor asks, inclining his head.

Yuuri goes quiet for a second before speaking. “I was just… going to thank you again for the gift and for inviting me over,” he says. His words are hushed and halting, like maybe that wasn’t what he planned on saying after all, but he still means it. “We don’t really know each other so it’s not like you had to do anything for me, but you did anyway. So thanks.” He brings a hand up to rub at his neck, a self-soothing gesture. “Erm… what were you going to say?”

Not wanting another silence to take over, Viktor forces the words out as fast as possible. “I was going to ask you on a date.”

Yuuri starts in response, seemingly stunned. “You—wha…” He trails off, unblinking. “Me?”

“You said it yourself, we don’t know each other very well,” Viktor replies, playing calm and collected. Taking a chance, he moves a step closer, carefully wrapping a hand around the one frozen in place against Yuuri’s neck. He brings it back down between them, rubbing a thumb over Yuuri’s cold knuckles. “Maybe I want to get to know you.” 

Another pause.

“ _Me_?” he repeats.

Viktor laughs. “Is there anyone else standing on this porch?”

“Well, I’m not—I just.” Yuuri looks down at their interlocked fingers and lets out a trembling breath. 

“You can say no,” Viktor says, frowning in concern. “I won’t be offended.”

Not offended, no, but he’d certainly feel like his heart and soul were both mercilessly stomped on—but that doesn’t matter. It’s not like he’s the kind of person to force anyone into anything. Though maybe asking was a bad idea, and maybe stepping closer was, too, and grabbing his _hand_ when Yuuri clearly values personal space.

Just as Viktor loosens his grip, Yuuri tightens it. 

“I’m definitely not saying no!” he replies, loud and fervent, shocking them both. Yuuri brings his free hand up in embarrassment and covers the side of his face. “Oh, _god_ … this isn’t a prank or anything?”

Viktor pouts. “I may tease, but I’m not an asshole.” He wonders what exactly is going on in Yuuri’s head that, after Viktor’s spent nearly a thousand dollars on him (so far) and has tried to be in his bubble all night, has him thinking this is a joke. “I want to take you out.”

Yuuri doesn’t reply, squeezing his eyes shut as he flushes and fights back an obvious smile.

“Wine and dine you,” Viktor pushes on, a smug grin creeping onto his face as he leans in even closer. “Court you, if you will—Yuuri, are you hiding from me?” The tutor’s hand has moved from his cheek and is now covering his entire face. 

“You’re really pretty and nice and I didn’t want to get my hopes up and assume you liked me and now you’re asking me out and it’s a lot to take in!” Yuuri says, all in one breath. He still refuses to move his hand.

Viktor laughs, sunny and bright against the nighttime sky. “The first date hasn’t even happened yet and I’m already being showered with compliments!” he exclaims. “Is it my turn, now?”

If Viktor doesn’t have to tiptoe around shameless compliments and flirting anymore, then he has quite a lot to say.

“No! I—” Yuuri interjects, flustered, and Viktor whines in disappointment. The tutor takes a deep breath, shoulders falling up and down, and takes his hand off so he can finally look Viktor in the eye. “Yes, I’ll go on a date with you.”

“Really?!”

Yuuri splutters. “ _Yes_.” He fiddles with his glasses, an ever-present blush staining his cheeks. “It’s not like I haven’t been super obvious since we met…”

“Mm, you haven’t been. _Super_ obvious, anyway.” He beams. “I have, though!” 

But he _has_ been trying to hold himself back a bit—sort of. Time and time again, Viktor’s seen what happens when he gives his all to somebody from the get-go, amps his bubbly persona up to a thousand and throws himself at near strangers with all he has. 

Surprise, it never ends well. 

“What? No, you haven’t!” Yuuri disagrees, brows furrowed. “If you were, I would've just asked you out myself… but I wasn’t sure.” Doubting himself this time, there’s a beat of silence where Yuuri starts to look even _more_ unsure and Viktor snickers, catching the tutor’s attention again.

“Methinks someone is a little oblivious.” He smirks.

Feigning offense, Yuuri scowls, mouth twisted to the side. “Don’t make me back out on that date.”

“You wouldn’t!” Viktor gasps, surging forward to grab Yuuri’s other hand and narrowing the gap between them.

If someone were to paint a portrait of Yuuri at this very moment (flustered, fond looking, beautiful Yuuri), the entire tube of red would be gone in an instant, brushing it onto the canvas from the tips of his ears and all the way down the visible parts of his neck. 

Yuuri squeezes his hands. “No, I wouldn’t,” he replies, and Viktor’s heart swells in his chest.

A loud bark rings out through the air from inside the house and they both jump, turning toward the noise. Viktor faintly hears the unmistakable sound of Makkachin running through the house and wrapping paper being dragged across the wooden floor. His mother’s, “ _Makka, no!_ ” quickly follows.

Viktor chuckles and shakes his head, turning back to the man in front of him. “I think that’s my cue,” he says, reluctantly letting go. “I’ll text you, okay?”

“O-okay,” Yuuri says, almost in a daze. “Goodnight, Viktor.” 

“Goodnight.” He smiles, the words almost whispered between them. He watches as Yuuri makes his way down the stairs, fingers lightly brushing the railing so he doesn’t slip. “Drive safe!” Viktor calls out once he reaches the last step, illuminated by the giant, glowing candy canes at the bottom. 

Yuuri nods in thanks, waving as he goes, and Viktor sighs. 

It won’t hit him until a while later that he actually has a _date_ with that man; that he has an entire evening to plan, an outfit to choose… that Viktor’s going to have to leave him behind eventually. 

He pushes that thought down as far as he can and basks in the beatific atmosphere that surrounded them for a moment longer, savoring it before he has to go back inside and face unavoidable chaos. 

He steels himself, a hand on the doorknob, and pushes his way in. He’s met right away with continuous barking and scolding, and his nose and cheeks tingle from entering such a warm room after standing in the biting cold. He rubs his arms to get some heat back into his body and walks into the living room.

Everyone is sitting around as they were before, except this time his mother is on the floor with Makkachin tucked between her legs. She’s bear-hugging the poodle from behind so she can’t bolt a second time, and there’s a piece of red paper and tape stuck to Makkachin’s nose. 

Viktor laughs before he can stop himself and goes to sit beside her. Anastasia glowers. 

“I caught her just in time. She almost took the whole tree down,” his mother says, and Viktor smiles, reaching over to scratch Makkachin behind the ears. She isn’t upset about it for too long, though, because it seems she also has something else on her mind. 

“Vitya, Lilia went to use the bathroom upstairs earlier,” she starts, eyeing him suspiciously. “Who ripped the shower curtain off?”

Viktor freezes for no more than two seconds before putting on an innocent face. “The shower curtain was ripped off?”

Anastasia looks wholly unconvinced, but Viktor pretends he doesn’t notice, shrugging as he calls Makkachin over to sit in his lap instead. 

“Probably Yura’s fault.”

He’ll pay for that one later, but right now, Viktor’s determined not to let anything kill his blissfully good mood—nothing in the world even could. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some super well thought out notes from my outline on this chapter include: "CHRISTMAS MORNINGGG VIKTOR BIRTHDAY TIMEEE", "…and Yuri’s like ew… but whatever i guess :|" and "OH GOD. YUURI HAS ARRIVED."
> 
> Also yes, bassists being the Idiots in the band is a widely accepted stereotype, at least in the rock/metal community. It gets mentioned every time I say I'm a bass player (╥_╥)
> 
> I don't even know how this chapter got as long as it is, but I hope you liked it anyway! Can't believe I originally thought I'd be combining the last chapter with this one lol. Lemme know what you think :)
> 
> **Comments & kudos are greatly appreciated! Comments especially encourage me to keep posting.**
> 
> Come scream at me on my **[YOI tumblr](https://vitya-z.tumblr.com/)**.


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

  
They decide to go out on the 28th, and Viktor spends the next couple of days before that stressing over where to go and feeling so jittery it’s like he injected straight caffeine into his veins. It, unsurprisingly, makes everyone in the house kind of hate him, but it’s not like he can help it. 

The day after he asks Yuuri out, he scrolls through so many restaurant and bar reviews that all the words eventually start to bleed together, phrases like ‘ _overpriced_ ’, ‘ _underwhelming_ ’, and ‘ _atmosphere_ ’ permanently branded behind his eyelids.

(He may or may not even leave a few negative Yelp reviews for places he hasn’t actually been to before based on photos alone—because if you’re going to call yourself a _themed_ _bar_ , at least commit to the aesthetic! The fact that any establishment would call themselves that and have nothing but dim lighting and a few abstract photos hung around is absolutely unacceptable.)

During his trek through too many snobby review sites and even a few first date articles (“10 Totally Unique Date Ideas That’ll Sweep Your Sweetheart Off Their Feet!”), he makes sure to check in with Yuuri every now and then, too, continuously asking if he’s okay with This or That or if he’d prefer This instead and maybe That another time. Yuuri always replies with something along the lines of: “ _it doesn’t matter to me—no, really, it doesn’t! I just want to spend time with you, so I don’t care where we go—oh god, wait, was that embarrassing to say?_ ” 

Viktor is then left giggling down at his phone like a teenager.

His family definitely notices, and his mother is definitely still not happy about it. She’s not _mad_ , necessarily, but… she’s certainly bothered. Viktor pretends not to notice, though, because even if it is hard for him, he’s at least _trying_ to approach this relationship differently for once. 

He’s finally ready to break free of the dirty, old chains of bad habits. He’s spent the necessary time to ruminate over his own life, adjusted to no longer depending and clinging to a partner so intensely to feel some semblance of happiness, and has finally learned to just _be_ ; to feel okay on his own exactly where he is, as he is. It’s not easy, but he’s doing better—he really is. As far as Viktor’s concerned, going out with Yuuri for the reasons that he is (because he actually _likes_ him, because he makes his heart sing, because this feeling is entirely new) is a step in the right direction. 

So he brushes his mother’s negativity off with ease, like water off a duck’s back, and continues his search for as long as he can get away with, eventually settling on an idea just the day before. 

Which is a tortuous day, might he add, because Yuuri is _here_ but he’s locked away in the tower of Yuri’s bedroom, a murderous dragon hoarding Viktor’s treasure. 

Viktor mopes and mopes and mopes, sending text after text to Yuuri asking if he can at least come up and join them (“ _I promise I’ll be quiet, pleaseeee!!! ｡ﾟ･ ( >﹏<) ･ﾟ｡_”) but the tutor insists that, as much as he’d enjoy his company, Viktor will be nothing but a major distraction.

He’s isn’t _wrong_ , but Viktor’s still sad about it. 

“Our night out has been planned, my Yuuri!” he later chirps, managing to catch the tutor as he’s halfway out the door. They step out onto the porch together, the morning air crisp and cold and the sun blinding where it pierces through a blanket of grey clouds. Yuuri’s unstyled hair blows slightly in the wind. 

“It’s not super over the top or anything, so don’t feel like you have to show up in a flashy suit,” he continues, then hones in on a blue Honda rolling down the street, pushing forth a rather unfortunate memory from Christmas night. “And I’d advise against the blue tie that you wore last time.”

“As if I even own anything flashy,” Yuuri mumbles, adjusting the strap on his new bag. He frowns. “Wait, what’s wrong with my tie?”

“ _Hm_?” Viktor balks. “Nothing! Who said there was anything wrong with it? I just think you shouldn’t wear it…” He picks an invisible piece of lint off of Yuuri’s shoulder and flicks it away with a saccharine smile. “Ever again?”

Yuuri snorts. “If you say so.”

They exchange goodbyes and _I’ll text you later_ s, and Viktor sags against the doorframe while he watches Yuuri go, feeling like he was just shot directly in the back by Cupid himself with the way he’s threatening to fall over, his legs suddenly weak. Yuri walks past him near the end of their interaction, seeing Viktor staring forward like a man hypnotized, and scoffs, rushing off with a grousing, “I can’t escape this shit.”

His poor little brother, Viktor thinks to himself, already complaining about Viktor being disgustingly lovesick when, depending on how this date goes tomorrow, it’s only going to get a thousand times worse.  
  


* * *

  
Viktor’s palms are leaving streaks of sweat behind on the steering wheel by the time he leaves for Yuuri’s apartment the next night. 

He, himself, _Viktor Nikiforov_ , is so nervous that every press and squeeze against this cheap leather interior creates an actual wet spot—the man who’s had more dates and… other reasons to visit people he’s attracted to at night than he can count—and it’s _gross_. It’s gross and it’s totally unlike him, and he steeps alone in his pool of sweat and embarrassment during the fifteen minute drive there, even going so far as to roll all of the windows down, snow be damned; it’s seven o’clock at night in the winter, yet it feels like a thousand degrees in here. 

The snowy wind caresses his skin and pushes his hair back, offering a momentary respite, but it doesn’t help quell his nerves at all. He still feels hot under the skin and is constantly reaching up to pull at the collar of his shirt; it feels like it’s choking him, which would make more sense if he wasn’t wearing a _v-neck_. 

He’s already thought it over at least a hundred and one times by now, how tonight will go. He’s played out a dreamy and picturesque evening for two non-stop in his mind like a broken record, his favorite love song suddenly cutting off with a jarring scratch and only repeating the moment where everything goes wrong.

But there’s no use obsessing over the what-ifs, he tells himself. The highly anticipated date night is already here—meaning all he really has to do is _calm the hell down_. The last thing he needs is for this newfound anxiousness to up and ruin everything completely. 

He focuses his attention back on the road and loosens his grip, forcing himself to relax. 

Being the outrageous romantic that he is (outrageous in general, though it applies to romance as well), his mind immediately drew up a few things when a first date was to be arranged: intimate lighting with candles and chandeliers; roses in crystal clear vases sitting atop velvety white table cloths; and restaurants where you get kicked out for not speaking French as perfectly as it’s written on their menus. 

But as fancy and luxurious as that would be, Viktor has a funny feeling those types of settings aren’t really Yuuri’s thing. So he settled on a bar instead: one that could be considered just as fancy and high-class as any other real restaurant, but with an air of casualness that hopefully makes the place seem less formal and uptight, like the two of them won’t have to act a certain way with a bunch of waiters breathing down their necks.

Always one for surprises, Viktor was adamant in not giving too much away while texting Yuuri about it earlier. He made sure to mention the fact that it was a bar, of course, and that Yuuri was more than welcome to suggest something else if he wanted to, but, never one to step on anyone’s toes, the tutor texted back insisting it was fine, claiming he was just as excited for their date as Viktor was. 

Viktor wonders if ‘just as excited’ means he’s also in as much of a state as Viktor is: stressed out of his mind and nervous beyond belief, his body reduced to one big tremble and shaking like the purse-sized chihuahuas he sees at work every now and then. Viktor wonders if he fretted over finding the perfect outfit for an hour, too, or if his hands are also… sweating—oh _god_ , he’s still sweating and he can literally see Yuuri’s apartment complex coming up down the road— _shit._

Viktor slows to a stop against the curb in front of Yuuri’s place and throws the car in park, quickly switching the overhead light on so he can see where he’s digging around in the center console. He whips out a can of emergency aerosol deodorant and sprays an entire cloud of it under his shirt before wiping his clammy hands off on his pants, fast enough for them to heat and burn. He slams the console closed and punches the light off just as the door to Yuuri’s apartment is wrenched open.

Sadly (very, very sadly), Viktor doesn’t get much of a chance to fully appreciate the tight black button-up and dark jeans Yuuri’s in, as he comes more or less running out of his own apartment the second his feet touch the pavement. A young man—boy? No, he looks young, but not _that_ young—with tan skin and dark hair follows him out but hangs back against the door frame, a wide smile taking up half of his face. 

Yuuri gets into the car with his shoulders hunched and a relieved sigh, throwing himself into the passenger seat. Viktor pouts; he didn’t even get to open the door for him like a gentleman.

Any sweet greetings on the tip of Viktor’s tongue are promptly swallowed down as Yuuri looks up and turns, groaning when he realizes the windows are still down and he hasn’t actually escaped whatever the smiling mystery man was likely annoying him with.

“Have fun, you two!” the man calls, loud and clear through the open windows. He points an admonishing finger from across the sidewalk. “And be safe! No glove, no love—remember that, Yuuri!”

Yuuri slaps a hand over his face and sinks into his seat. 

With an entrance like that, some of Viktor’s earlier anxiety is already starting to dissipate, bleeding out through a gleeful laugh. He waves at the stranger and the stranger waves back, his smile growing broader somehow before he slips back into the apartment. 

“ _Somebody_ has expectations for tonight,” Viktor says into the following silence. “Should I have come prepared?”

“Oh my god, stop talking, just go!” 

Yuuri’s curled up on the passenger seat like a hermit crab, hiding from the rest of the world until the residual embarrassment fades away. Still chuckling to himself, Viktor does as he says and rolls all of the windows up, setting off down the road. 

“Who was that?” he asks, when it becomes clear that Yuuri isn’t going to say anything else. “I think I like him already.”

Yuuri slowly unfurls, the crab carefully poking out of its shell now that the threat is long gone. “Phichit.” He sighs the man’s name, his voice laced with memories of past affectionate teasing and the exasperation that comes with having a best friend. “My roommate. He’s a photography major. We met in passing at some party, but he came up to me later on and just… wouldn’t stop talking.” Viktor can see the way a silent laugh makes his shoulders bob out of the corner of his eye. “He forced me to be his friend, pretty much.”

“Seems like it worked out okay, though.”

Yuuri hums in assent. “I guess it did,” he replies, and Viktor can hear the smile in his voice when he says it.

It seems he still has somewhat of a hold on his usual equanimity, because now that Yuuri’s actually here, he feels surprisingly calm. Well—he’s strongly aware of Yuuri’s cologne drifting toward him in rich wafts and his pale fingers drumming against the side of the passenger seat, making Viktor’s heart bang like a kickdrum, but his upper lip is no longer caked in sweat and he doesn’t feel the need to pull over and vomit, so he’s thankful for that at least.

Viktor lets out a breath, lips twitching upward, and glances down at the GPS. He turns down one road and then another, his blinker clicking and the tires crunching over gravel and snow.

It’s a new feeling, entirely new, but Viktor revels in the way a spell of silence between them doesn’t feel like a signal, a cue for him to turn up the charm and get to talking, do anything he can so he doesn’t have to suffer in such an awkward lull. It’s easy—companionable. This silence doesn’t grate on the ears.

“Are we really going to a bar?” Yuuri asks, sardonic, some moments later. The moderate light and noise from previous streets are beginning to ramp up as they get closer to the city’s nightlife: clubs and restaurants, galleries and shops. “I can’t hold my alcohol very well.”

“Well, it’s not like my plan is to just get you _drunk_ ,” Viktor laughs. “And it’s not some skeevy dive bar, if that’s what you’re thinking. This one’s much more classy. You won’t have to worry about mysterious sticky surfaces or being hit on by someone’s dad.”

Yuuri makes a face at that, and then there’s a pause. “Is it expensive?” 

He gives Yuuri a sidelong glance. “You are aware that we’re in New York, yes?”

“ _Viktor_ ,” Yuuri groans and, _oh_ , isn’t that a sound. Viktor coughs into his shoulder. “You need to stop spending so much on me; it makes me feel bad,” he says, and once they reach the next stoplight, Viktor turns to him with a confused frown. Yuuri shrugs. “Like I have to pay you back or something. Make it up to you somehow.”

That hits him like a slap in the face. “You don’t have to pay me back!”

“Well—no, I _know_ that, but… still.” Yuuri reaches up to adjust his glasses out of habit, and it’s only then that Viktor realizes he’s not actually wearing them. His brown eyes shine crimson under the traffic lights. “Let's go somewhere cheaper next time.”

Viktor blinks, then smiles, sly. The shimmer in Yuuri’s eyes suddenly sparkles green and he presses the gas. “You’re already planning date number two?”

“I mean—wh—no!” he splutters, and Viktor whines like a wounded puppy. “Yes? I don’t know, _maybe_! Do _you_ want to go on a second date?” 

“I think I’m already planning our hundredth!”

Once that sentence leaves his mouth without his permission, Viktor’s torn between kind of regretting it and kind of… not. It’s only when Yuuri stiffens in his seat and chides him in a mumble, “Viktor, you can’t just say things like that,” that Viktor feels a familiar pang in his chest: he’s being too much, too soon. He needs to pull back some—so he digs for a distraction. 

“Oh well, too late now,” Viktor replies, breezy and grinning, and points to a jet black building with large, glass windows and a few tastefully placed neon signs. “Look, there it is!” 

Yuuri fortunately takes the bait and Viktor can pretend his little slip up never happened.

Finding parking isn’t as much of a hassle as he thought it would be, only having to drive a bit down the road to find a space, so their walk through the cold is blessedly short, _and_ (Viktor does an internal fist-pump) he’s finally given the chance to open the door for Yuuri when they get there, earning some of those gentlemanly points that he was denied earlier. Yuuri quietly thanks him, blushing through it all, but stops abruptly once they’re fully inside.

Compared to the spread-out chatter and honking from outside, the sudden wall of noise they’re hit with as they enter is a bit overwhelming, Viktor will admit, and Yuuri unconsciously reaches out to grab his hand. The choking noise he makes is thankfully covered up by the sound of other patrons. Acting as unaffected as he can manage, Viktor gives Yuuri’s smaller hand a reassuring squeeze as he asks a hostess for directions to the bar, even as his heartbeat turns syncopated, thumping at an odd rhythm. 

They’re led away from the main action—where the smell of barbecue and sauteed vegetables fills their noses and the top forty hits are playing overhead, a million idle conversations and the clinking of utensils joining the mix—and toward a stairwell off to the side that paves the way to a lower story in the building.

Hands still linked, they make their way down the wide, metal staircase, the ruckus from above slowly filtering out. Off to the side at the final step is one of the restaurant’s meat lockers, a glass pane instead of a door showing off the room like a display, and a vivid red light shines down from the inside, casting an ominous glow into the entrance of the basement bar. 

_This_ is why Viktor chose this section of the restaurant specifically, he thinks to himself as they walk further in, surveying the available tables. There’s only about twenty people down here. The music is mellow and the chatter isn’t so loud that you have to shout to be heard, much more low-key than the first floor. 

It’s also nearly pitch black, and Viktor has to squint for his eyes to fully adjust once they decide on a table in the far corner of the room, praying to whoever’s listening that he doesn’t trip over his own feet.

The chairs are leather and curved where they’re set around a square table in a glossy shade of gunmetal grey, the epitome of modern-esque furniture, and they even managed to snag a spot next to what makes this bar “themed” in the first place, makes it as popular as it is; a section of the two walls next to them are cut out, replaced with massive squares of ferns, vines, and moss, and a white light is placed behind them so they practically glow, a thick jungle dazzling indoors. 

If Viktor strains his ears, he can even hear the sound of a steady stream playing from somewhere in the room, adding to the ambiance.

“I feel like I don’t have enough money to be in this room,” Yuuri says as he settles into the seat across from him. “Like if I touch something, I’ll taint it.” He gives the place an awed once over before his eyes flit back to Viktor. “Do you go to places like this often?”

“It’s not _that_ fancy,” Viktor chuckles. He opens the drink menu on the table and winces. “Ah, well. I do like to live lavishly, I guess…” Disquieted now, he looks up. “I just thought this would be better than some candlelit dinner—feels a little less stiff than that, at least, no?”

“No, you’re right,” Yuuri assures him, getting more comfortable in his chair. He smiles. “At least here I can hide in the dark and slouch.”

They’re not completely in the dark, and for that Viktor’s grateful. The light emanating from the wall splits Yuuri’s face down the middle, one side shrouded in deep shadows while the other is bathed in a heavenly radiance. “Glad we decided to sit here, though.” Viktor smirks and leans forward. “So I can still see your pretty face.”

Yuuri’s left cheek stands out in stark relief, and it blooms a ruddy scarlet.

Once the other man’s composed himself enough to form sentences again, the two scan their menus and order drinks—a raspberry beret for Yuuri and a ‘ _purrrfect_ ’ for himself: something sweet and lemony mixed with catnip-infused vodka and plum wine—along with whatever cuts of meat the waiters are willing to cook and bring down for them; that way they still have a chance to taste the food even if the full Korean barbecue experience isn’t included like it is upstairs. 

A short while later, their table is covered in plates and tiny bowls, chopsticks off to one side and their drinks in hand. 

Viktor takes a first sip, the lemon zapping his taste buds and the vodka warming his throat. He realizes that all of his pre-date jitters have seemingly vanished, leaving him nothing but happy to be here. 

“So what made you decide on teaching, of all things?” he eventually asks. He knows that it’s a career Yuuri’s set on, that the work to get there is hard but no less enjoyable, but Viktor wants to know how he decided on that in the first place—it’s never once been an occupation he considered for himself. 

Though, when he thinks about it, Viktor would probably be a bad teacher anyway: the kind who gets frustrated when his students don’t follow directions because the directions only make sense to him. 

Yuuri looks embarrassed, for some reason, and out of all the reactions that question could have received, Viktor wasn’t expecting that one. He watches as the tutor absently taps his chopsticks against one of the bowls. “It’s kind of a long story…” he says.

“I did say I wanted to get to know you, didn’t I?” Viktor scoots forward, finally grabbing his own chopsticks and fixing a plate before the food gets cold. He looks up once he’s done and smiles. “I’m all ears.”

Yuuri concedes with a sigh and fond roll of his eyes. “Well, I started with dancing first,” he begins, fixing his own plate, now, “but I grew up next to an ice rink, so my instructor suggested I give skating a try since it’s sort of in the same family as ballet. I fell in love with it, honestly.” He pauses with a smile, something private and bittersweet. “I thought that’s what I was going to do forever.”

Quirking his brow, Viktor hums in interest. “A history in ballet _and_ skating? It’s starting to a sound a bit like my childhood, now.” He plops a bit of kimchi in his mouth and teases around the bite, “Kind of feels like fate that we met, then, hm?”

Yuuri huffs a shy laugh, but the intrigue in his eyes is clear. “You skated?”

“Mm, on and off,” he explains with a ‘so-so’ gesture of his hand. “I was pushed more towards ballet. But if you ever see Yakov again, don’t mention that unless you want to be forced onto the ice and show him what you can do. He’s just as bad as Lilia,” he chuckles. “I’m assuming you were good?”

Yuuri hesitates to respond, rubbing the rim of his cup against his bottom lip in a way that’s wholly distracting. The condensation leaves behind a wet sheen and he shrugs. “I competed for a while, but…” he trails off, unsure of how to finish, but Viktor’s already picked up enough about the other man to know what he means.

“You were good.”

Yuuri almost chokes on a sip at that, and he sets his glass back down on the table with a loud _clank_. “You haven’t seen me skate before; you don’t know!”

“Of course I know!” Viktor laughs, delighted, and points at him with his chopsticks. “You’re shy but you’re hiding something. I can see it,” he says, fully earnest. “I bet you’re beautiful on the ice _and_ in a studio.”

Yuuri can try to dispute it all he wants, but Viktor knows it’s an irrefutable fact. Yuuri is made of two complete opposites sewn together to form a whole, and it’s obvious in those rare moments where the stitched line begins to blur and one side seeps into the other: in a handful of dry, witty texts that make Viktor feel like an idiot, or when he ignores Viktor’s word completely, forcing his way in to wash dishes that aren’t his on Christmas night.

It’s obvious when he lowers his head but his eyes remain steely; when he fidgets with his hands but stands with his back ramrod straight.

Viktor can only imagine what he unleashes in a performance, going from sparks to flames, hot enough to melt the very ice he skates upon. Viktor would kill to see it, rink or stage. 

Yuuri shoves a piece of pork belly into his mouth to avoid responding to the compliment, but continues once he’s finished. “I quit a couple years into juniors.”

Viktor frowns. “Even though you loved it so much?”

“I don’t do well in competition,” he replies after a beat. Viktor twirls his chopsticks and encourages him to elaborate, and Yuuri offers, “Stage fright? I guess. I felt like the stress of competing was sort of… taking the fun out of skating, and I didn’t want that, so… I quit.” 

He says it with an assuredness in his tone and a hardness in his eyes that proves he’s more than content with his past decision, though it was far from easy at the time. So Viktor says as much, “Must’ve been a hard decision to make. But it’s always best to just do what makes you happy—I’ve learned that over the years, too.” He smiles, and Yuuri responds with a smile and nod of his own. Though, Viktor’s morphs into a smirk as the silence stretches on. “And this all leads up to teaching, how?” he asks, and Yuuri looks up from his plate with a start.

“Oh, right!” he exclaims, red-faced and embarrassed. “Sorry, I got sidetracked.”

Viktor laughs into his cup as he takes another drink before setting it down, leaning his elbows on the table with his chin pillowed in his hands. “That’s alright; get sidetracked all you want. I like hearing you talk.”

Yuuri’s glare is dampened by his obvious amusement. “You’re such a flirt,” he grouses, and Viktor would be the biggest liar on the planet if he denied it, so he keeps his mouth shut and listens.

Slowly but surely, Yuuri then describes the way he threw himself into schoolwork to fill the sudden gap in his life that came with no longer competing, the abundance of free time he had to deal with. He wasn’t just skimming the textbooks and giving educated guesses anymore; he was absorbing what was being taught, realizing his grades could be damn good if he tried, and that he himself seemed to have a knack for teaching, too, even starting somewhat of a study group at one point and helping the students who needed it.

He was quieter than most kids at his school, leading to a childhood without many friends, but he was also understanding—patient and compassionate—in a way most students weren’t (he doesn’t say all that, but that’s what Viktor gathers from it). This, in turn, made him a near perfect teacher and at least semi-popular in that regard, eventually making him consider it as a future career path. It was a far cry from figure skating, that’s for sure, but he knew it was something he’d still enjoy.

Viktor’s entire being turns warm and fuzzy at the thought of a dorky, teenage Yuuri in an ill-fitting school uniform, kind and baby-faced, lending a hand to his fellow classmates, even if they weren’t really friends. Viktor, on the other end of the spectrum, was a raging brat during his adolescence; he wonders if they would’ve gotten along way back then.

“As much as I love Hasetsu, it is _very_ small,” Yuuri says, and Viktor makes good on that promise of keeping his mouth shut, enthralled by the simplest stories as long as Yuuri’s telling them. “Everyone knows each other, and at least until recently it seemed like… you were born there, you lived there your entire life, and you died there, too.” His expression twists. “I didn’t want that—I wanted to experience more than that. America was just the first place my brain went to and teaching Japanese seemed like a good way to combine both of those goals, so…” He smiles with a shrug and brings his drink up to finish the remaining drops. “Now, I’m here.”

Enraptured by the way Yuuri’s fingers are poised over the rim of his glass, long and elegant, Viktor replies, “And I’m so glad that you are.” 

Dinner continues smoothly after that. They order a few more drinks, and some more after that, and talk until their voices are rough and tired in their throats, and the bartender begins to side-eye them. It’s like they’ve known each other for years, Viktor muses, connected some way in a past life and now finally reunited to share stories of this one, laughing all the while.

Viktor tells him about Makkachin’s Instagram fame, Chris, and the sunny beaches of LA—where it’s hot and overcrowded but at least nice to get lost in—and opting to share one childhood story for every one that Yuuri shares, too.

Viktor goes over the traumatic experience he endured in high school, when he got gum stuck in his long hair and nearly had a meltdown while his mother combed peanut butter through the clumped, silver strands. (And how he’s still, to this day, convinced it was karma for snapping at a substitute teacher who didn’t deserve it.) Yuuri giggles until he’s clutching his stomach over that one, and Viktor has the strongest urge to just reach over and pinch his cheeks.

In between more giggles and flirting, Yuuri reminisces about a bittersweet and introverted youth: being picked on for his interests in ballet and skating (even if he was the go-to for homework help) until his friend Yuuko came to the rescue in a flurry of shouting and pink bows. 

He mentions how being involved in the skating world helped him pick up on a few other languages, too, (Russian included—is there anything Yuuri can’t do?) leading to yet another unique hobby that helped pass the time: turning into a total foregin film buff. With only two close friends his own age, becoming a cinephile worked out great for his shy, unsociable self, and that steers the conversation toward a rather exciting confession as well: “My dog’s name is Victor, you know,” Yuuri says with his usual blush, “like the guy from _Corpse Bride_ ,” and Viktor has to stop himself from squealing.

They take turns listing their favorite movies after that, and Viktor lets one slip that has Yuuri snickering for so long he almost feels offended.

“Keep teasing me, Yuuri,” Viktor says, trying his hardest to look stern. “See what happens.”

The man’s eyes are creased with laughter, and he looks up from where his head is resting on the table. “But _Bride Wars_?” he asks. “Seriously?”

“ _What_? It’s good!” Viktor insists.

“It’s cheesy!”

“What’s wrong with that?!”

Yuuri bursts into another fit of giggles and hides his face in his arms, and as cute as that is, a little revenge seems in order. 

Viktor picks up his now empty glass and asks, innocently, “Yuuri, when’s your birthday?”

The tutor pokes his head up. “Hm? Why?” When Viktor doesn’t respond with anything more than a smile, Yuuri huffs. “November 29th.”

“Oh, so I missed it!” he gasps. “That means we need to celebrate!”

Yuuri’s expression immediately turns suspicious. “What are you—”

“Hey, everyone!” he addresses the room at large, swiping a chopstick off the table and tapping it against his cup. All conversation dies to a murmur before it ceases completely, every head turning to face their noisy table in the corner. He pointedly ignores Yuuri’s panicked “ _Viktor!_ ” and smiles pleasantly (and perhaps a little deviously) as he announces, “Today’s my date’s birthday!” 

At first, that garners nothing more than a few disinterested mumbles, but it’s soon followed by drunken cheering and a sprinkling of whistles, the energy in the room building until almost everyone there is singing happy birthday to the poor man trying to burrow into his chair. It’s sloppy and horribly offkey, but it’s wonderful all the same.

Viktor, of course, jumps in right along with them (singing louder than every voice combined). 

The song ends in a collection of wordless hoots and rowdy claps, and the bartender even stops by with a free drink: something pink and topped in a generous swirl of whipped cream, though Yuuri doesn’t react in the slightest; he’s too busy playing dead with his upper body sprawled across the table, face down.

“Payback,” Viktor laughs once the excitement dies down. He steals a sip of the colorful concoction and makes a face— _very_ sweet. “For making fun of my obsession with chick flicks.”

“I’ll never talk bad about your love for Kate Hudson again,” Yuuri moans into the table, his voice slurred.

Viktor chuckles. “Did I go too far?”

“No, you’re just…” Yuuri sits up with a groan and a pout and snatches the drink out of Viktor’s hand. “Ridiculous.”

“Mm, in a good way, I hope?” 

Yuuri’s eyes are smiling over the edge of his cup as he knocks their feet together. “Of course.”  
  


* * *

  
Maybe they both got a bit more drunk than they originally thought, because once the bill is paid and they’re walking along the streets to sober up before going home, they somehow wind up outside of an indoor trampoline park…

And then Viktor is begging Yuuri to go in. And then Yuuri doesn’t deny him and they’re suddenly buying wristbands. And then they’re the oldest people in the building trying to do backflips.

Coats and shoes discarded on the sidelines, the two of them continue to try and impress one another for the next hour and a half—keyword: try. Alcohol and trampolines greatly hinder pretty much all motor functions.

They bounce, they trip, they fall (more than once into the foam pit), and their laughter is so loud it echoes throughout the entire warehouse. 

Viktor eventually tries for a frontflip, even though he knows he’ll never nail it, and just barely lands on his feet before he’s flying forward and smacking right into Yuuri’s chest with a shriek—and then they both go tumbling downward wrapped in each other’s arms.

Practically cackling, Viktor pulls himself off of the smaller man likely suffocating under him and rolls over to lie at his side instead, but when he turns to face him, Viktor’s left breathless for an entirely different reason. 

Lighting in any building such as this is typically unflattering at best, yet Yuuri looks like an angel sprawled out under the fluorescent bulbs. He’s rosy-cheeked and laughing still, cherub-like features turned up beautifully toward the ceiling, with most of the hair that was previously slicked back now sticking to his forehead.

He looks undeniably messy—but painfully stunning.

Everyone’s staring at them, Viktor knows. They’re being annoying and loud and making a scene in a place usually frequented by children, but Viktor couldn’t care less; _he’s_ too busy staring at Yuuri, and it’s impossible to look away. 

Viktor doesn’t think he’s ever felt this carefree in his life.  
  


* * *

  
The drive back to Yuuri’s apartment is silent.

It’s not the kind of silence that drags out the longer you wrack your brain for something to say, until the tension and awkwardness is almost too much to bear, makes your body physically tighten, and you wish you were anywhere else; it’s the kind that comes with blissful exhaustion, like during the drive back home after an exciting family day trip—or a fun night out: tired but satisfied. 

At one point, when Viktor’s too busy navigating the dark streets to look over, he thinks he even hears Yuuri’s breath slow and even out for a moment, dozing in the passenger seat. He smiles.

He’s drained of all energy right now; he smells like sweat and rubber from the trampoline park, and his shin hurts from when he accidentally banged it against the table during dinner, aching and likely bruised—and yet he feels like he could live tonight a hundred times over again and only feel happier after each one that passed.

This is new, Viktor acknowledges yet again, turning down one street and then another with a fusion of exhilaration and even a little fear swirling in his gut; this is very new.

The car jerks to a final stop once they pull up to Yuuri’s place, the sound of Viktor shifting into park breaking the lengthy stretch of stillness between them, and the other man slowly pulls himself up from where he was slumped over. He was definitely asleep then, Viktor chuckles as Yuuri blinks rapidly and pushes the door open before turning back to Viktor with a shy, sleepy smile: one of his cheeks is rosy from being pressed up against the window, and his eyes are slightly lidded and hazy. 

Viktor returns the smile easily. “I had a lot of fun tonight,” he says, keeping his voice low. Speaking any louder would feel too out of place.

“Me too,” Yuuri replies around a small yawn as he rubs at one of his eyes. His hand lands back in his lap with a soft thump and he straightens in his seat, more awake, now. “Uh… I’d like to do this again sometime… if you want.”

Viktor’s body thrums pleasantly with some unseen energy: affection, warmth, and relief. So tonight wasn’t entirely one-sided—his body releases a bit of tension he didn’t even realize he was holding in his shoulders at that—Yuuri enjoyed it just as much as he did, apparently; yet he still looks decidedly nervous and apprehensive in the seat across from Viktor, like he’s actually expecting his offer to be turned down.

“Absolutely,” Viktor agrees, and Yuuri noticeably relaxes. “I’d love to. Are you coming over tomorrow?” When the other man nods, Viktor gasps, over exaggerated. “I get the pleasure of seeing you again so _soon_?”

Yuuri laughs and rolls his eyes. “‘The pleasure,’ yeah, sure.”

Viktor hums happily. “Well then… I’ll see you tomorrow, Yuuri.”

And then there’s a pause, one that follows every ending to a first date, where the easiness that stretched alongside the pleasant silence from before compresses to a single point between them, heavy and thick with anticipation. 

Viktor’s heart is beating so loud he wonders if Yuuri can hear it. Or if he can feel it physically pulsing in waves around Viktor’s rigid body the closer he gets; because he is getting closer, Viktor realizes with a feeling similar to falling on his back and getting all the air knocked out of him: closer, closer, and closer… 

The leather upholstering creaks as Yuuri shifts his weight and leans over the center console, and Viktor watches, breath catching in his throat, as Yuuri tilts his head and closes his eyes, dark lashes fanning out across pale skin. 

Viktor instinctively moves with him, reaches up with shaky hands to cradle his face—and turns Yuuri’s head to kiss him on the cheek instead. 

Because Viktor is terrified. 

He wants this; he wants this so bad it paralyzes him with a sort of fear he’s never felt before, and it’s only just hitting him now, of all times, when his lips are pressed against Yuuri’s soft skin, not a patch of stubble to be felt.

Viktor said he wanted this one to be different, didn’t he? And doesn’t that mean to take things slow? Would things really turn out different if he listened to what his body wants and completely threw himself at the man beside him?

Is he only obsessing over the details? things that don’t matter?

He just doesn’t want to make the same mistakes all over again, to follow in his past self’s destructive footsteps with this person who makes him feel the kind of giddiness Viktor’s only read about in the books littering his shelves back home; what he was convinced he’d never have no matter how desperately he used to search for it. 

Yuuri makes a confused noise in the back of his throat and Viktor pulls away. A flash of hurt ripples over his expression like a stone thrown before the lake smooths over and is replaced with a cautious smile. A strong blush then follows, of course, once Yuuri realizes Viktor hasn’t actually backed away yet, is still holding his face close and gently brushing a thumb under his eye. 

“Goodnight,” Viktor murmurs. He playfully reaches up and pinches the tip of Yuuri’s nose, and the tutor breaks away with a startled laugh. The sound makes him feel weightless.

“Goodnight, Viktor,” he replies in a voice just as quiet. 

A second later, he’s gone, out of the car and rushing through the cold before waving and disappearing into the warmth of his own home. 

Viktor stays out there for a good five minutes longer and rests his head against the steering wheel, feeling like Yuuri somehow tied a rope around his heart and tugged it along with him all the way inside.

“Feelings,” he mumbles aloud, at least ten different emotions warring in his stomach, “are much too complicated.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The restaurant they go to is a real place called Cote in NYC, and the basement bar is called Undercote! They don't actually serve food down there, I don't think, but it's a fanfic so I can switch details around if I want to lol. I did pick their drinks off the actual menu though:-)
> 
> Hope you liked this chapter! I know it's a lot shorter compared to the last one ;-;
> 
>  **Comments and kudos are greatly appreciated**! | Follow my **[YOI tumblr](https://vitya-z.tumblr.com/)**


End file.
